A Waiting Game
by juliaspov
Summary: His Uncle Bobby was missing so Sam Campbell did the only thing he could think of, search for clues in Dean Winchester's house.  Dean had dreamed about meeting Sam but certainly not under these circumstances.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This fic was completely plagerized from The Waiting Game, a Harlequin Intrigue by Jayne Ann Krentz. I totally love the story so of course I stole it, slashed it, and posted it. ...um, sorry?

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><p>Sam Campbell paused in the act of searching Dean Winchester's desk and told himself for the hundredth time that what he was doing was illegal and potentially dangerous. And while he had his faults, as his family had only recently pointed out to him in some detail, he had never, until that moment, sunk to the level of doing something of this nature.<p>

But Sam was concerned, worried, anxious and more than a little suspicious of the stranger whose study he was going through with such haste. Besides, he told himself with his customary impulsive enthusiasm, the opportunity had been too good to let pass. The door to Winchester's isolated home had not been locked when he had arrived twenty minutes earlier. And he had, after all, no intention of stealing anything. He just needed some answers.

Impatiently Sam scanned the room as he closed the drawer of the desk. The study was a clean-lined, orderly room. It was a quiet, solid, masculine room, and he couldn't help wondering how accurately it reflected its owner. Hardwood floors, simple, substantial furniture and a great deal of shelving were the main features. If the den did mirror its owner with any degree of accuracy, Sam would be in trouble should Winchester happen to walk in the door. Something about the place seemed to resist and resent his intrusion.

A greenhouse window that overlooked the cold, dark water of Puget Sound provided the main source of light. Dusk was settling in on Bainbridge Island, where Dean Winchester made his home, and across the expanse of water the lights of Seattle began sinking into life. Sam didn't dare turn on a lamp for fear of alerting a neighbour to his presence. The house was tucked away by itself amid a stand of fir and pine, but one never knew who might pass by on the road outside. It was late summer and he ought to have enough fading twilight to get him through the rest of the search.

He was turning away from the desk, intent on exploring the bookshelves, when he noticed the apple. Startled, Sam reached out to pick it up. In that moment he was forced to acknowledge that he might have been mistaken in his suspicious of Dean Winchester. After all, Sam had an apple just like this one and there was only one person who could have given it to Winchester.

Sam held the object up to the fading light and studied it intently. It was not just any apple, of course. It was fashioned of heavy crystal, and the stem with its leaf was of intricately worked gold. The person who had made a gift of the apple believed in substantial things such as gold, Sam knew. Small bubbles had been captured inside the apple by the artist. They reflected the light in an intriguing manner, making anyone who held the object want to examine it more intently.

All in all, it was a very attractive paperweight, and the fact that it sat on Dean Winchester's desk put a whole new light on the situation. Sam stood still, turning the apple so that the crystal caught the light, and wondered what he was going to do next.

'Offer me a bite.'

The deep, gravelled voice came from the doorway. Sam chilled for an instant as alarm and embarrassment washed through him. He nearly dropped the crystal apple as he spun around to face the man who was lounging calmly against the doorjamb. Frantically Sam struggled for self-control and a reasonable explanation of his presence in the study. Unfortunately the situation did not do wonders for his presence of mind. Sam found himself wishing very badly that he had never succumbed to the temptation the empty house had provided.

'I'm sorry,' he managed, stumbling over the words. 'I didn't hear anyone. I mean, there was no one at home when I arrived, and the door was unlocked. I had no business wandering in to wait for you, but it seemed pointless to sit outside in the car and I…' he broke off abruptly as something occurred to him. 'You are Dean Winchester, aren't you?'

Eyes that were either unusually colourless or else were washed of colour by a trick of the dim light swept curiously over him. Sam had the feeling that the stranger had taken in every detail in that brief glance.

'If I'm not Dean Winchester, this situation is going to get even more complicated, isn't it?' the man noted softly.

Sam's fingers tightened on the paperweight as he force himself to sound reasonably cool and collected.

'It would mean that there are two intruders in Mr. Winchester's home instead of just one. Yes, I would say that would complicate things. But I don't think that's the case. You are Dean Winchester.'

Arms folded across his chest, the man regarded Sam with mild interest. 'What makes you so sure?'

'You're leaning much too casually in that doorway, for one thing,' Sam retorted. Whatever he was thinking, the man didn't seem intent on doing him any immediate harm. Actually, he really didn't look like the sort of man who would harm someone unless greatly provoked. The fear died away, leaving only the embarrassment. 'Look, I can explain this, Mr. Winchester.'

'I can't wait to hear the explanation.'

Sam felt a warm flush rise along his cheekbones. Carefully he set the crystal apple back down on the desk. It was a relief to have an excuse to look away from that strangely colourless gaze. 'Then you're going to acknowledge your name, at least?'

'Why not? This is my home. I might as well use my name,' Dean murmured easily.

'I'm Sam Campbell,' he said quietly, turning his head to meet Dean's eyes once more. 'Bobby Singer's nephew. I have a paperweight just like this one at home.'

'I see.'

He hadn't expected the silence that followed. It made Sam feel uneasy and awkward. Hurriedly he tried to fill it with further explanations. 'I came looking for you because I couldn't locate Uncle Bobby. I just arrived from his place in the mountains late this afternoon. I caught the ferry here to the island and by the time I found your house it was getting pretty late. There was no answer when I knocked on your door, and when I tried it, it was unlocked. I'm afraid I just came on in to wait for you,' he concluded with a tentative smile.

'And wound up searching my study as a means of passing the time?' Dean didn't return the smile but he didn't seem unduly upset.

Sam took a deep breath. 'I happened to notice the paperweight,' he lied politely. 'It really is just like the one I have. Uncle Bobby gave it to me a few months ago. I assume he gave you this one?'

'Umm.'

Sam decided the noncommittal sound was an affirmative. 'They're quite stunning, aren't they? I have mine on my desk at home.'

Dean ignored Sam's determined chattiness. 'What were you looking for, Sam?'

Something about the calm manner in which he asked the question convinced Sam that Dean Winchester wasn't going to accept his explanation of why he happened to be in his study. Sam exhaled slowly, considering his options. This might be a clear-cut case of honesty being the best policy, he decided ruefully. Folding his arms across his chest in a subtle mockery of Dean's own stance, he leaned back and propped himself against the edge of the desk. He met Dean's gaze with a level one of his own.

'I was looking for something.'

Dean nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 'For what?'

Sam shrugged. 'That's the problem. I don't know. Anything that might give me a clue about where my uncle is.'

Dean continued to regard Sam with solemn interest for another long moment. This time Sam resisted the impulse to fill the silent void with attempts at explanations. He could be just as remote and laconic as Dean Winchester could, he promised himself.

'What makes you think I might have some answers for you?'

'I'm not sure you do. But Uncle Bobby once told me that if anything ever happened to him, I was to notify you. He gave me your address several months ago, shortly before he sent the apple, in fact.'

'And you think something has happened to Bobby?'

'I don't know,' Sam admitted. 'I only know that he's not at his home up in the mountains.'

'Perhaps he's taken a short trip. Was he expecting you?'

Sam hesitated uneasily. 'Well, no. I just showed up on his doorstep unannounced, I'm afraid. I did try to call but all I got was his answering machine.'

'Then why the concern?' Dean pressed quietly.

Sam looked at him searchingly. 'How well do you know my uncle?'

'Well enough.'

Not much to go on, but he might as well see what happened when he told Dean the reason for his concern. 'His neighbour said he went hunting.'

Dean Winchester greeted that bit of information with more silence. Then he straightened away from the door. 'Have you had dinner, Sam?'

Sam frowned as Dean turned away and started down the hall. 'Wait a minute! Don't you understand?' he demanded, following after the other man. He caught up with him just as he rounded the corner and walked into the small, rather old-fashioned kitchen. 'They said he went _hunting_.'

'And Bobby Singer doesn't go in for blood sports. Yes, I understand.' Dean opened the refrigerator door, examining the contents with a wary eye.

'It's because of his old job,' Sam said quickly. 'Before he retired he worked in a rather violent world, you see.'

'He worked for the government, you mean.' Dean finally decided on a plastic-wrapped chunk of cheese. He removed it from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. Then he opened a cupboard and reached for a box of crackers. 'I know what your uncle used to do for a living, Sam.'

Sam blinked, watching Dean carefully. 'Oh.'

'You didn't answer my question. Did you have any dinner?' Dean began slicing cheese with smooth, methodical strokes of a knife.

'Uh, no, I haven't had time,' Sam said vaguely. His mind was on other things and had been all afternoon.

'Neither have I. Cheese and crackers and some vegetables okay?'

'Look, Dean… Mr. Winchester… I'm really not very hungry. I just came here to see if you knew anything about Uncle Bobby.'

'And you stayed to rifle my study.' Dean nodded. 'Sorry I can't offer anything more interesting. But it's kind of late in the evening to start something more elaborate. And I'm really not that good a cook in the first place.'

'I didn't rifle your study!' Sam exploded, beginning to lose his patience. He didn't have a great deal of that commodity in the first place. Life was short enough as it was, he felt. What good was an excess of patience? 'Now, about Uncle Bobby…'

'There's some wine in that cupboard next to the sink. Why don't you open a bottle while I slice up a few carrots and some broccoli?'

'But I don't want any wine!'

'I do.' Dean glanced back at Sam over his shoulder, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. 'I'm celebrating, you see.'

That stopped Sam. 'Celebrating what?'

'The sale of my first novel.'

Sam stared at him, astonished. 'Are you really?'

'Umm.'

Again Sam assumed the noncommittal sound was a yes answer. His enthusiasm sprang up, as usual, out of nowhere and rushed into his voice. 'Dean, that's fantastic! Absolutely fantastic! A once-in-a-lifetime event. I can't believe it. I've never even met an author before.'

'Neither have I,' Dean said dryly. He finished slicing the cheese and opened the refrigerator to pull out a handful of carrots. 'Choose whichever bottle of wine you want.'

A little bemused, Sam found himself obediently reaching into the cupboard

and selecting a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir. He'd heard the Northwest wine industry was starting to flourish but he hadn't yet had much experience with the products. 'You must be very excited.'

Dean thought about that. 'Well, it was a relief to make the sale,' he began consideringly.

'A relief! Why, it's marvellous! Terrific! Thrilling! What's the matter with you? I should think you'd be doing handsprings or something.'

'I imagine it's easier to get excited when there's someone else around to get excited with you,' he murmured, arranging raw vegetables on a platter and putting a dollop of mayonnaise in the centre. 'I did go out and have a beer down at a local tavern. That's where I was when you arrived, in fact.'

Sam poured the wine and handed Dean a glass. With a smile he raised his own glass in a grand salute. 'Congratulations! And here's to nice, fat royalty checks.' He sipped his Pinot Noir with attention. It was good. Sam made a mental note of the fact. There appeared to be a future in the Northwest wines. Then he remembered belatedly that he didn't have to worry so much anymore about being on top of the latest culinary trends. 'Too bad you can't tell Uncle Bobby. I'm sure he'd be very happy for you.'

Dean regarded Sam over the rim of his glass as he took a deep swallow. 'Yes, I think he would be quite satisfied.'

Sam smiled at him quizzically. 'Did he know you were writing a book?'

'He knew.'

'Then you really are a close friend of his?' he went on doggedly.

'Umm.'

Sam shot him a narrow glance. 'Can't you just say yes or no?'

'Sorry, Yes.'

'Then you do realize that it was odd he would tell his neighbour he was going hunting?' he continued more seriously.

'Is that exactly what his neighbour said? That Bobby said he was going hunting?' Dean picked up the platter of vegetables and led the way into the rustic living room. He set the plate down on a low wood-and-brass table in front of the couch and went over to the old stone fireplace. Going down on one knee, he reached for a handful of kindling. Although it was still technically summer and the day had been sunny and warm, the first hints of autumn was in the air tonight.

Sam sat down in the corner of the worn black leather couch, studying the man in front of him. 'That's what the woman who had the cabin near his said. Her exact words.'

Dean didn't respond, his attention on constructing the fire. Sam sipped his wine and continued to watch him. There was a certain fluidity to his movements that intrigued him. There was also a definite logical precision to the way he built the fire. A coordinated, controlled man. Dean was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a black denim work shirt. The clothing moulded a lean, tautly built body that seemed totally balanced. On his feet he wore a pair of dusty, soft-soled canvas sport shoes. Now that Sam had a moment to think about it, he decided the strange eyes were really a shade of clear green. In the right light they might appear as silver.

Dean was a friend of his uncle's and that took the nervousness out of contacting him, even if he had caught Sam going through the contents of his desk. Although Sam's uncle gave the impression of being easygoing and very friendly, Bobby Singer was actually quite cautious in his friendships. He had worked too long in a world where few people could be trusted. If he liked Dean Winchester, then Sam knew he, in turn, could trust the stranger in front of him. His uncle had always been an excellent judge of people. Sometimes his life had depended on those judgements. The fact that he had survived and been able to retire at a normal age was evidence of just how accurate his analyses of other people had been over the years.

Dean set a match to the kindling and the yellow flames leaped to life. He crouched for a moment in front of the fire, making certain it had caught properly, and the flickering light illuminated the hard line of his profile.

He was an extremely handsome man, Sam reflected. The planes and angles of his face had been carved with finely chiselled care. There was a primitive strength in the aggressive nose and the austere cheekbones. Dean wasn't the kind of man who would smile easily but his full lips held promise. Sam guessed Dean's age at somewhere close to thirty.

Sam thought he saw something of the fundamental sureness and strength in him that his uncle must have seen before he decided to make Dean a friend. Bobby Singer was sure of this man and therefore Sam knew he could be sure of him, too. He relaxed even more and took another sip of his wine. He sensed he had done the right thing by seeking out Dean Winchester.

He just wished Dean had shown a little more interest in his concern for Uncle Bobby. But then, a man who had just sold his first book probably had a right to be thinking of other things at the moment.

'What's it called?' he asked as Dean got to his feet and paced back to the couch.

'My novel?' He seemed to have no trouble following the abrupt shift in the conversation. Dean picked up a cracker with cheese on it and downed the whole thing in one bite. '_Phantom_.'

'Is it a horror tale?'

He shook his head slowly, his eyes on the fire. 'Not in the sense you mean. It's what's called a thriller.'

'Ah, secret agents, espionage, plots and counter-plots. That sort of thing. I read a lot of thrillers.' he smiled. 'Are you writing under your own name?'

'I'm writing under the name Dean Winchester.'

'Good, then I won't have to jot down your pseudonym. You'll have to autograph a copy of your book for me when it's published. I'm sure Uncle Bobby will want one, too.'

'Bobby's already seen the manuscript,' Dean said quietly. 'Because of his, uh, background, I thought he might be able to give me a few ideas that would make _Phantom_ sound more authentic.'

'Did he?'

'Umm.' Dean stared into the fire. 'He was very helpful. You're really worried about him, aren't you?'

Sam resisted the temptations to say 'umm.' 'Yes. My uncle doesn't hunt. He doesn't even like to fish. Why would he tell his neighbour he was going hunting and then drop out of sight?'

'Beats me.' Dean swirled the wine in his glass. 'But don't you think you may be overreacting? You should know your uncle can take care of himself.'

'He's in his late sixties now, Dean. And he's been out of the industry a long time.'

Something close to amusement gleamed briefly in Dean's eyes. 'The industry? You sound like an insider. Bobby uses words like that.'

Mildly embarrassed, Sam's mouth turned down wryly. 'That's how he always referred to his government work. I guess I picked up the term.'

'And some of the skills?' he asked too blandly.

Sam looked away, reaching for a carrot. He knew Dean was referring to the fact that he had found him prowling around his study. 'Obviously I didn't pick up the skills. If I had, you would never have caught me the way you did this evening. How did you sneak up on me so quietly, anyway? Must be those sneakers you're wearing. But I was certain I'd hear any car pulling into the drive.'

'I walked back from the tavern. The car is still in the garage behind the house.'

'Oh.' Chagrined, Sam chewed industriously on his carrot.

'You'd better practice checking out those sorts of details if you plan to follow in your uncle's footsteps.'

'Don't worry, as much as I like my uncle, and in spite of the fact that I happen to be in the market for a new career, I do not intend to go into intelligence work. I can't think of anything more depressing and grim. Imagine living a life in which you couldn't trust anyone or anything. Besides, I like to limit my close association with violence to reading thrillers,' he added with a small smile. 'It's okay on a fantasy level but I certainly wouldn't want to make a career out of it.'

'If you feel that strongly about it, you'd better give up the habit of going through other people's desks. You could have just as easily turned around and found yourself facing an irate homeowner holding a gun as a friendly, trusting soul such as myself.'

Sam eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. 'Actually, you did take the whole thing quite calmly.'

'You didn't look that dangerous,' Dean informed him gently, ignoring Sam shifting his muscular six foot four frame indignantly. 'In fact, you appeared rather inviting standing there in the twilight, gazing into the apple. Besides, as soon as you said you had one just like it, I knew who you were.'

'You were certain I was Uncle Bobby's nephew?'

'When he gave me the crystal apple he told me he'd given a second one to you. He had them made up specially for us, you know.'

'No, I didn't know. That is, I didn't realize he'd had a second one made until I saw it sitting on your desk. When I spotted it, I decided I probably didn't have any reason to go on being suspicious of you,' he added apologetically. 'Unfortunately, I came to that brilliant conclusion a bit late. You'd already snuck up and found me in what I guess qualifies as a compromising situation. You really don't know where Uncle Bobby might have gone or why he would say he was off hunting?'

'No. But I do think Bobby can take care of himself. My guess is he'd want you to stay out of the way until he's handled whatever needs handling.'

'Then you do believe something's happened to him!' he pounced.

'I didn't say that,' Dean protested mildly. 'I only meant that he probably had his reasons for disappearing. Maybe he just wanted to take off by himself for a while. Maybe he's got a woman friend and didn't feel like explaining all that to his neighbour. There could be a hundred different reasons why he's not at home, none of them particularly sinister.'

'I don't like it,' Sam muttered, feeling pressured by the logic.

'Obviously, or you wouldn't have taken the trouble to find me. So Bobby told you to look me up if you were ever worried about something having happened to him?'

'He said you'd want to know, or something like that. I wasn't exactly certain what he meant. He doesn't have a lot of close friends. I assumed you might be one of them.'

'But you weren't sure where I fit in so you decided to take a quick look around my desk drawers while you waited for me to return. Are you always that impulsive?'

'It seemed prudent, not impulsive, to take the opportunity to find out what I could about you before I confronted you,' he said cautiously. 'Some of my uncle's old acquaintances aren't the sort with whom you want to get involved on a first-name basis.'

'You've met a lot of them?' Dean inquired politely.

'Well, no. But Uncle Bobby has told me about a few of them.' Sam shivered slightly, remembering one particular tale. 'He's got a great collection of stories and personal recollections, although he always changes names and locations to protect the guilty. I suppose he's mentioned a few of the more colourful characters to you if you used him as resource material for _Phantom_.'

'We've shared a few beers and talked on occasion,' Dean admitted.

'You see a lot of my uncle?'

Dean moved his hand in a vague gesture. 'He doesn't live that far away. I get out to his place once in a while and sometimes he makes it over here. What about you? See a lot of him?

Sam grinned, dimples flashing. 'Not as much as I would have liked over the years. I'm afraid Uncle Bobby has always been considered the black sheep of the family. As you can imagine, though, I found him fascinating. He was the unconventional relative, the one who had the mysterious career, the one who showed up when you least expected him. He was unpredictable, and kids like that, I suppose. The rest of the family thought he was a bad influence on me and, of course, that made him all the more interesting.'

Dean leaned back against the sofa, slanting him a glance. 'Why did they think he was a bad influence?'

'Because he always encouraged me to do what I wanted to do, not what my family wanted. And he had a way of understanding me, of knowing what I was thinking. He told me two years ago, for instance, that I wasn't going to be happy for long as a mid-level manager in a large corporation. Said I didn't have the proper corporate personality. He was right. I think I knew it at the time but everything seemed to be on track and running smoothly in my life. I was living the perfect 'streamers life-style, and to be honest, it had its moments.'

'Streamer? Ah,' Dean nodded, '-following all the new trends, mainstream.'

Sam gave him another laughing smile. 'I was into the whole scene down in California. I had a lifetime membership at the right athletic club, dressed for success, had my apartment done in the high-tech look and kept up with the trends in food. I ground my own coffee beans for my very own imported Italian espresso machine, and I can tell you the precise moment when pasta went out and Creole cooking came in, if you're interested.'

'No, thanks. I eat a lot of macaroni and cheese. I don't want to hear that it's 'out.' So Bobby advised you to dump the 'streamers life?'

'Macaroni and cheese does not count as real pasta,' Sam told him forcefully. 'Streamer pasta is stuff such as linguini and calamari or fettuccini Alfredo. And, yes, Uncle Bobby did advise me to dump the 'streamers life-style. Along with the 'streamer males I was dating at the time,' Sam confided cheerfully. 'I think he thought they were all wimps. He said none of the ones I introduced him to would be of any use in a crunch. I explained I didn't plan to get into any crunches but he just shook his head and told me to come visit him when I came to my senses.'

Dean regarded him assessingly. 'And that's why you went to his place today? To tell Bobby you'd come to your senses?'

Sam stirred a little restlessly on the couch, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs as he shifted his focus back to the fire. 'Something like that. I quit my job last week. I think I'm going through a mid-life crisis.'

'You're a little young for that, aren't you?'

Sam ignored the underlying trace of humour in his question. 'Don't patronize me. I just turned twenty five. As it happens, I've been through several mid-life crises and I know them when I see them. I'm ready to make some changes in my life again.'

'You're sure that change is what you want?' Dean got to his feet to throw a bigger log on the fire.

'Oh, yes,' Sam murmured with great certainty, 'I'm sure.'

Sam sounded quite resolute, Dean decided as he fed the flames. He'd heard that quiet certainty in Bobby's voice from time to time. Must be a family characteristic.

For some reason, Sam Campbell wasn't quite what he'd expected, though, even if he did have some of Bobby's iron-hard determination. Dean toyed with the flames a moment longer, considering the younger male who was lounged on the couch behind him. When a man had waited nearly a year to meet someone, it was perfectly natural that he would have developed a few preconceptions.

The few expectations he had, however, had never been fully formed. Bobby had given him some vague, odd bits of information about his nephew but little that was concrete enough to build a picture in his mind. Just like Bobby to deliberately leave a great deal to the imagination. He was, after all, a man, and he knew what a man's mind would do when it went to work on a mysterious figure.

Dean realized that he hadn't expected Sam Campbell to be a raging beauty and in that regard he'd been correct. Taken individually, his features didn't add up to those of a beautiful man. What surprised him was that the hazel eyes, ready dimples, longish chestnut brown hair and tall, slender figure somehow went together to create a subtly appealing combination.

On second thought, it wasn't the collection of physical characteristics that made for that appeal. There simply wasn't anything that unique about eyes that hovered between green and brown or about hair that was worn shaggy, a few longer strands tucked casually behind his ears. The red polo shirt he was wearing emphasized a long lean chest, rather than just muscular strength.

Dean turned the matter over in his mind for an instant longer before he decided that Sam was somehow more than the sum of his parts. There was intelligence, ready laughter and more than a dash of impulsiveness in those hazel eyes. And when he had learned of the sale of Dean's first book, his spontaneous enthusiasm had been very real even though Dean was a stranger to him. It was his inner animation that somehow pulled the ordinary together and made the total package strangely intriguing.

He'd been consciously and unconsciously anticipating Sam's arrival for several months but the end result had still taken him by surprise. He simply hadn't expected to feel such an immediate and compelling attraction to the young man. He hadn't though he'd react to the reality of Sam with such intensity. It was unsettling but he'd lay odds that Bobby would probably say 'I told you so' the next time he saw him.

Satisfied with his analysis, Dean turned and moved back toward the couch. He'd long ago accepted the fact that for some things there were no answers but he still preferred situations that could be taken apart, analyzed and understood. He liked to have a handle on things, Dean told himself. No, it was more than that. He liked to know he was in control of his environment. Having everything accurately assessed and properly analyzed gave him the only real sense of security one could have in this world. Sam Campbell was a new and disturbing element in his environment and it was good to know he was already beginning to comprehend him. More importantly, he was comprehending and accepting his reaction to him. He rather thought Bobby Singer would be pleased at the progress of the situation.

'It's getting late,' Sam mused as he munched the last cracker. 'I suppose I'd better be on my way. If you really don't have any idea of where Uncle Bobby is, there's no point imposing on you any longer.'

'Where were you planning on going tonight?' Dean sank back down on the couch, aware of an unexpected and totally irrational sense of disappointment. Sam had just arrived. It didn't seem right that he should already be planning to leave. That wasn't the way it was supposed to be. A part of him was disturbed that Sam seemed oblivious to the fact that things were different now. Clearly Singer had not given him any idea of what he'd had in mind when he'd set about engineering a meeting between Dean and his nephew.

He wondered how much to tell Sam about his Uncle Bobby's plans for him. He wondered how the other man would take the news. He might be furious or he might treat the whole thing as a joke. It occurred to Dean that in spite of being nearly thirty years old he didn't know nearly as much about relationships as he should. It would probably be better not to bring up the subject of Bobby's plans this evening. On the other hand, Dean found himself fiercely reluctant to let Sam go without putting the first delicate tendrils of a claim on him. Something elemental had come alive deep within him, something hard to deny.

'There's an inn on the outskirts of Winslow. It's only about a mile from here. I'll stay there tonight and be on my way tomorrow.'

Dean frowned. 'You're planning on returning to California?'

Sam shook his head vigorously. 'Not until I satisfy myself about Uncle Bobby. I'm worried, Dean, even if nobody else is.'

Dean rolled his empty wineglass between his palms. 'I don't think you have anything to be concerned about.'

'Maybe I've got an overactive imagination. People are always accusing me of it.' He lifted one shoulder in careless disregard for the fact. 'But Uncle Bobby's former career must have contained some loose ends. And I know that at times he was involved with some dangerous people. There was one in particular he once told me about-' he broke off abruptly, eyes narrowing.

'What do you think you can do about the fact that he's not available at the moment?' Dean asked reasonably.

Sam gave the matter some thought. 'I think I'll go back to his cottage in the morning and break in. Maybe he left some notes or something on his desk.' His eyes grew thoughtful with the plans running through his head.

Dean looked down at the glass in his hands. 'The last time you tried that trick you got caught.'

Sam laughed. 'Well, no harm done if Uncle Bobby comes home unexpectedly and catches me in his house. In fact, it will be a great relief. The mystery will be solved, won't it?'

Dean experienced a flash of amused amazement. 'You're going to do it, aren't you?'

'Why not? Maybe I'll get some answers.'

'I think you'll be wasting your time.'

Sam grimaced. 'At the moment I have time to waste. As I explained earlier, I'm unemployed.'

'There are probably more productive things you could do with your newfound time,' Dean suggested dryly.

'I know. Such as look for another job. But I think I'll see what I can find out about Uncle Bobby first.'

'Are you always this impulsive and stubborn?'

'Just since I turned twenty-five,' he told Dean with benign menace, his eyes mirroring an amused challenge.

Dean found himself smiling back at him. Sam's gaze went to his mouth, and he realized Sam was very interested in his expression. Did the smile look that odd on his face? ' Well, if you're intent on another act of breaking and entering, I suppose I'd better go along with you.'

Sam was startled. 'Why? There's absolutely no need for you to come with me.'

'You're wrong,' Dean said gently. 'There are several good reasons why I'd better tag along, not the least of which is that Bobby Singer would probably nail my hide to the wall if I didn't.'

'Why on earth should Uncle Bobby care?'

'You're worried about him to the point where you're willing to break into not one but two private homes. Bobby would expect me to take your concerns seriously, I think. He'd also want me to make sure you didn't get into trouble. What if a neighbour saw you going through a back window and called the law? You'd have some difficult explanations to make. Messy, Bobby likes things neat and tidy.' Dean paused a moment. 'So do I.'

'Well, I still don't see why Uncle Bobby would expect you to take the responsibility of keeping me out of trouble,' Sam declared firmly.

Dean deliberately kept his voice casual even though he was oddly aware of the strong, steady beat of his own pulse. 'Don't you? The explanation's simple enough. Bobby Singer has plans for you, Sam. You've arrived a little ahead of schedule. I think he was planning on you coming to visit him in a couple of months, but the timing doesn't change things.'

For the first time since he had caught Sam in his study, a degree of genuine wariness flared in Sam's gaze. Dean immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut. But the strangely primitive desire to let Sam know he wasn't quite as free as he assumed was pushing him.

'What plans?' Sam demanded suspiciously.

He'd already said too much, Dean decided. In a way it was alarming. He'd allowed his unaccustomed emotional response to push him in a direction he'd guessed would be awkward. Odd. He usually had a much better sense of discretion. Having gone this far, however, he was committed to finishing the business. He couldn't take back the words he'd already spoken. The next best thing he could do was concentrate on keeping his tone light and whimsical.

'Didn't your uncle tell you that he has decided to give you to me? You're my reward, Sam. My gift for finishing _Phantom_ and a couple of other things that were hanging fire in my life.


	2. Chapter 2

'Uncle Bobby has always had an odd sense of humour. If you're really a close friend of his, I imagine you know that by now. I've always thought he would have made a good cartoonist. Between his constant doodling and his offbeat notion of what's funny, he'd have been very successful.'

An hour later Sam lay in the unfamiliar inn-room bed rerunning his response to Dean Winchester's casually outrageous remarks. He decided he'd handled the scene reasonably well. He would have suspected Winchester of having a warped sense of humour except for the fact that he knew his uncle. It was entirely possible that Bobby Singer had 'given' him to his friend. He'd told him more than once that Sam didn't know how to pick his men. It was Bobby who had the fractured sense of humour, Sam decided grimly. What worried him was that under that trace of whimsy, he sensed Dean might have taken Uncle Bobby seriously.

He turned onto his side, bunching the flat pillow into a more supportive shape, and thought about what his uncle had done. It was annoying, irritating and totally in keeping with Bobby Singer's somewhat bizarre way of arranging things. His affinity for the unexpected was probably some sort of survival trait. A good secret agent couldn't afford to be too predictable, Sam thought with a sigh. Normally, however, Bobby didn't allow his penchant for the unique approach to infringe too much on the lives of friends and family. He knew intuitively where to stop.

But he'd let himself go overboard this time, and Sam found himself wondering why. Couldn't he see that Winchester was a man who took life seriously? You didn't play jokes on people like that. They either got mad or hurt. There was always the possibility that Bobby was deadly serious about handing him over to a man of whom he approved, of course. He'd made it clear often enough he didn't think much of Sam's own choices in male companions. Yes, Bobby might have been very serious in his intent. In which case Sam would be sure to give him a piece of his mind when he showed up again.

Sam watched the shadows behind the gently blowing curtains. The window was open a few inches, allowing the fresh, crisp night air into the room. He knew a lot about his uncle's sense of humour. Over the years he'd seen enough examples of it. Strange that he was such good friends with Winchester. No one would ever accuse him of having much sense of humour, warped or otherwise. The faint flashes of amusement Sam had seen in him that evening disappeared so quickly he might have imagined them. He had the impression that when they did appear they surprised Dean as much as Sam. Winchester was a controlled, quiet man who not only seemed quite different from his uncle but who was also a perfect opposite to the kind of men who circulated in Sam's world.

His ex-world, Sam reminded himself. 'Streamers was another ex-world to add to the pile of such interesting experiments. It had been fun, but he had known when he'd gone into it that it wouldn't be permanent. Sam knew he would recognize the life he wanted to live on a permanent basis when he found it. Until then he played games with the world. He wondered if he was getting a little too old for games.

Restlessly he switched to his other side and plumped the pillow again. Still, he had learned some useful skills during the past few years. For example, he knew how to slide out of a socially awkward situation such as the one that had occurred tonight. A light laugh, a wry expression and an easy comment.

Dean had accepted his withdrawal from the topic, although he had insisted on accompanying him to the inn in Sam's car. He'd offered him a bed at his house but had not seemed surprised when Sam politely declined. There was no sense complicating an already complex situation, Sam had told himself. As much as he had been intrigued by Dean, he had been a little wary of him toward the end of the evening.

Sam was accustomed to men who didn't take anything except their careers, their exercising and their new BMWs seriously, men who knew the socially acceptable vocabulary of the new male sensitivity by heart but who didn't really know how to make commitments. Sam knew how to handle men such as that. He wasn't so sure about Dean Winchester. Sam sensed the other man took a great deal in life very seriously.

There was more age in his eyes than on his face, Sam thought. And there was quiet, implacable strength in that pale green gaze. He thought he understood why his uncle liked Dean. But he could also picture his unpredictable uncle trying to lighten the sombreness that surrounded the younger man like an aura. He could just see Bobby Singer laughing and telling Dean that his nephew would be good for him and that he could have Sam when he'd finished his novel.

Sam made a rueful face. Perhaps his easygoing uncle hadn't realized just how seriously a man like Dean Winchester would take such an outrageous comment. Ah, well. He would do his best to keep things light and easy between himself and the budding author on the drive back into the mountains tomorrow. And when this was all over he would give Bobby a lecture on interfering in the private lives and fantasies of his friends. Assuring himself of that, Sam finally drifted off to sleep.

It was sunny and warm the next morning as Sam showered and dressed for breakfast. Accustomed to that kind of weather in San Diego, he didn't think much about it. He pulled on a pair of clean jeans and buttoned up a plaid flannel shirt over his plain white t-shirt. Hastily he ran his fingers through his damp hair knowing that a brush really wouldn't help and wondered if Dean Winchester would be on time for breakfast as he'd promised. Sam decided he would be. Authors were entitled to be erratic in their habits, Sam felt, but Dean was the kind of man who would be exactly where he said he would be at the specified time. Dependable.

He hurried downstairs and across the street. The coffee shop Dean had pointed out last night when he'd escorted him back to the inn was full of people who weren't nearly so inclined as he was to take the local weather for granted. There seemed to be a kind of desperation in the air, as if everyone was determined to grab the last of summer before the Northwest winter took hold. Everyone from the hostess to the busboy commented in a dazed fashion on the fact that the Seattle area was getting another day of sunshine.

'Yes, it certainly is marvellous weather,' Sam agreed politely as he was seated. Privately he thought that no one in San Diego would have even bothered to comment on it. 'By the way, I'm waiting for someone.' Something made him glance back toward the doorway. 'Oh, there he is now. Would you show him to my table?'

The gray-haired, middle-aged hostess chuckled. 'Sure.' She waved energetically at the man who stood in the doorway surveying the room. 'Hey, Dean. Over here.'

Not just Dean but everyone else in the room looked around. Sam experienced an acute twinge of embarrassment. He should have guessed that in a small community like this everyone knew one another. Determinedly he smiled as Winchester walked toward him.

Striving for a casual pose of polite welcome, Sam was astonished to realize that he was actually mildly fascinated with Dean's approach. His stride was a deceptively easy, flowing movement that covered the distance between the doorway and the table very quickly. He had a coordinated, masculine grace that went beyond the kind of athletic motion Sam's friends developed by running or working out. He had a feeling Dean's physical control and smoothness had probably been born in him, the way a cat's coordination was.

The sandy dark hair that he obviously kept disciplined with a scissor was still damp from his shower and combed severely into place. He wore jeans and a cream-coloured button-down shirt. On his feet were the usual sneakers, Sam noted in amusement. The shoes made his progress across the coffee shop quite soundless. If Sam hadn't been watching him, he would never have heard him approach the table. Just as he had never heard him come down the hall to the study last night, he reflected as Dean greeted the hostess.

'Good morning, Angie. How's it going today? Looks like a full house this morning.'

The hostess nodded, pleased. 'Give these Northwest folks a little sunny weather and they crawl out of the woodwork in droves. We've been doing real good this past week. Real good. Have a seat with your boy here and I'll send Liz on over for your order.' Beaming impartially down at Sam and Dean, the hostess bustled off to find the waitress.

'Your boy!' Sam winced. 'I've always heard that in small towns people pay a lot of attention to what their neighbours are doing but I hadn't realized they were so quick to jump to conclusions! Better be careful, Dean. When everyone finds out you're gone off to the mountains with me for the day, you'll be a compromised man.'

'I can live with it.' He appeared unconcerned, turning his head to greet the teenage waitress as she hurried over to the table.

'Morning, Dean. Coffee for both of you?' Liz began filling Dean's cup without waiting for confirmation and then glanced inquiringly at Sam.

'Please.' Sam smiled.

'Ready to order?' Briskly Liz whipped out her pad.

'Try the scones,' Dean suggested before Sam could speak.

'Scones?'

'Ummm. Homemade. They're great,' he assured him.

'Well, I usually just have a bagel and coffee,' Sam began uncertainly.

'You're leaving that 'streamer life-style behind, remember?' Dean pointed out seriously.

Sam felt a wave of humour. 'All right. An order of scones and scrambled eggs,' he said to the waitress.

'Got it,' Liz responded. She glanced at Dean. 'The usual for you? The number-three breakfast without the bacon?'

'Fine, Liz.'

Liz giggled and hurried off toward the kitchen.

Sam stirred cream into his coffee and slanted a glance at Dean. 'Okay, I give up. Why the giggle over your order of a number-three breakfast?'

Dean's mouth twisted wryly. 'Because a number three without bacon is really a number one. The first time I ate here I didn't notice the difference on the menu and just told Liz I wanted the number three minus the bacon. For some reason she's made it into a standing joke between us.'

'I see. You don't like bacon?'

'I don't eat meat,' he explained gently.

Sam was instantly intrigued. 'Somehow you don't look like a vegetarian.'

He leaned back against the cushion of the booth and picked up his coffee cup. 'What do vegetarians look like?'

'Oh, I don't know. Maybe like leftovers from a sixties' commune or like a member of some exotic religious cult. Do you avoid meat for health or moral reasons?'

'I avoid it because I don't like it,' Dean said too quietly.

Feeling rather put in his place, Sam managed a faintly polite smile. He knew when he was being told to shut up. 'I guess that's as good a reason as any other. So much for that topic. Let's try another one. When will you be able to leave for the mountains? I'd like to start as soon as possible, if you don't mind.'

Dean's dark lashes lowered in a thoughtful manner and then his steady gaze met Sam's. 'Was I rude?'

'Of course not,' Sam assured him calmly. 'I should never have pried. What you eat is entirely your own business.'

'I didn't mean to be rude,' Dean insisted.

'You weren't. Forget it. Here come the scones and they do look good.' Sam flashed his best and most charming smile. The one he reserved for cocktail parties and management types.

'Don't.'

Sam blinked and arched a brow in cool question. 'I beg your pardon?'

'I said don't,' Dean muttered as his plate was set in front of him.

'Don't what?'

'Smile at me like that.'

'Sorry,' Sam said rather grimly. Perhaps he would go to the mountains alone.

'It looks like something left over from your 'streamer days,' Dean explained carefully. 'Kind of upwardly mobile. A little too flashy and not quite real. I'd rather have the real thing.'

Sam couldn't resist. 'Choosy, aren't you?'

'About some things. I can leave right after breakfast if you like.'

'Actually,' Sam began forbiddingly, 'I'm on the verge of changing my mind.'

'About breaking into your uncle's cottage?' Dean slid a bit of egg onto a piece of toast.

'About taking you with me,' Sam said sweetly.

Dean glanced up, surprised. 'Just because I was a little short with you a few minutes ago?'

Put like that, it did sound rather trite. Sam was at a loss to explain exactly why he was vaguely reluctant to have Dean accompany him, but the feeling had been growing since he'd awakened that morning. He didn't really have a valid excuse for refusing his companionship, however. After all, he was the one who had sought Dean out and he had done so precisely because Bobby Singer had advised it several months ago. The sense of ambivalence he was feeling for Dean was a new emotion for him. Sam drummed his fingers on the table and decided to lay down a few ground rules. Normally he didn't think too highly of rules, but there were times when they represented a certain safety.

'I suppose I can't stop you from coming with me, although I'm not as all sure it's necessary. But I would appreciate it if you would keep in mind that this whole plan to get into the cottage is my idea.'

'Meaning you're in charge?' Dean munched his toast, watching Samm with intent eyes.

'Something like that. Forgive me if I'm jumping to conclusion, Dean, but I have this odd feeling that you might be the type to take over and run the show.' Even as he said the words, Sam realized the truth of them. Perhaps that was the source of his vague wariness regarding this man.

'Think of how nice it will be to have someone else along to share the blame in the event you get caught breaking and entering.'

Sam's eyes widened. 'Not a bad point,' he conceded. Then his sense of humour caught up with him. 'What did you do before you became a writer, Dean? You seem to have a knack for getting what you want. Were you a businessman?'

He considered the question. 'I guess you could say I was sort of a consultant.'

'A consultant?'

'Ummm. Someone you call in when things go wrong and have to be fixed in a hurry. You know the type.'

'Sure. We used a lot of consultants in the corporation where I recently worked. What's your area of expertise? Engineering? Design? Management?'

'Management.'

Sam nodded, familiar with the field. 'Get tired of it?'

'More than that. I got what is casually known as burned out.'

'I can understand that. I think that in a way that's what happened to me. Uncle Bobby is right. It takes a certain type of personality to be really happy in corporate management. I guess neither you nor I is the type.'

A slight smile edged Dean's hard mouth. 'Maybe we have more in common than you thought. We're both in the process of changing careers and we both like Bobby Singer.'

Sam laughed. 'Do you think we can keep each other company on a long drive given those two limited things in common?'

'I think we'll make it without boring or strangling each other.'

An hour and a half later Sam was inclined to agree with Dean. The drive east of Seattle into the Cascades had passed with amazing swiftness. There had been stretches of silence, but the quite times had not been uncomfortable. Dean was the kind of man a person didn't feel they had to keep entertained with light conversation. In fact, Sam was privately convinced that Dean would be disgusted if he thought someone was deliberately trying to entertain him with meaningless chatter. It was rather a relief to feel so at ease with him in this area, he realized. His early morning tingling of ambivalence faded as Dean guided the car deeper into the forest-darkened mountains.

When they did talk, the topics varied from the spectacular scenery to speculation on Bobby Singer's whereabouts. In between they discussed Dean's fledgling career as a writer and the turning point Sam had reached in his own life.

'Are you in a hurry to find a new job?' Dean asked at one point.

He had calmly assumed the role of driver and Sam had acquiesced primarily because he suspected Dean would be excellent behind the wheel. He was right. Dean's natural coordination and skill made Sam feel comfortable at once. Dean had insisted on using his car and Sam couldn't complain about that, either. The classic Impala hugged the curving highway with a mechanical grace and power. Normally Sam wasn't particularly enthusiastic about being a passenger in a car being driven by someone whose driving techniques he didn't know well.

'I've got enough of a financial cushion that I can afford to take my time,' he told Dean, his eyes on the majestic mountains that rose straight up from the edge of the highway. Small waterfalls spilled over outcroppings of granite. A crystal-clear stream followed the path of the highway on one side. Heavily timbered terrain stretched endlessly in front of the car. It was hard to believe such mountain grandeur lay so close to the heart of a cosmopolitan city. 'But I'll get restless if I sit around too long trying to make up my mind about what I really want to do with my life.'

'Any ideas?'

'Well…' Sam hesitated, realizing that he hadn't discussed his tentative plans with anyone else, not even his family. 'I've been thinking of going into your old line of work.'

Dean's head came around in a sudden, unexpected movement. 'My old line?'

Sam nodded, smiling. 'That probably seems odd to you, but to tell you the truth, I think I'd be a fairly good management consultant. I'd like the opportunity to be my own boss, though. I wouldn't want to work for a firm of consultants. And I'd pick and choose my contracts. I know it sounds like a contradiction in terms, Dean, but even though I don't like working within an organization, I do have a flair for management techniques that work in an organization. It's one of the reasons I hesitated so long about quitting my last job. I was good at it in a lot of ways.'

Dean's attention was back on the road ahead. 'I don't think it sounds like a contradiction. A lot of people can give objective advice about things they wouldn't want to make a living doing.'

'It would take a long time to build a clientele,' Sam said slowly.

'I know the feeling. It will take a long time to build a writing career.'

'But I do have some good contacts who would be glad to recommend me to companies looking for a consultant,' Sam went on more enthusiastically.

'And I've sold my first book. Sounds like we both have a toehold on the future,' Dean said with the first hint of a smile that day.

Sam grinned. 'Assuming we both don't wind up in jail because one of Uncle Bobby's neighbours sees us breaking into his cottage!'

It was shortly after noon by the time Dean pulled into the drive of Bobby Singer's mountain cabin. They had stopped for lunch at a small roadside café en rout.

The weatherworn house was one of a number of such cottages scattered about the forested landscape. Many were filled with summer visitors but a few, such as the one just over the next rise, were owned by permanent residents. Bobby Singer liked his privacy, however, and had purchased a cottage that was not within sight of the next house. Unless his nearest neighbour happened by on a casual walk, no one would notice two people jimmying the back window, Sam told himself.

'Have you ever done this before?' Dean asked blandly as he climbed out of the Impala and stood surveying the cottage.

'I got into your place, didn't I?' Sam reminded him.

'The front door was unlocked, remember?'

'You should probably start locking it,' he told Dean seriously. 'You can't be too careful these days.'

'I'll try to remember to do it,' Dean said dryly. 'Now, about this little business…'

'Well, I'll admit I have no direct experience of prying open a window, but how hard can it be? People break into houses all the time.'

'And occasionally get shot doing so.'

Sam gave him a bright smile. 'Maybe we should knock on the front door first, just to make certain no one's home.'

'Good idea.'

Dean strode to the front door of the cottage and pounded loudly. There was no response. There was also no sign of Bobby's car.

'Looks like we'll have to do this the hard way,' Dean observed morosely. 'We'll probably wreck the window and Bobby will send me the bill.'

Sam started around the corner of the house looking for a window at the right height and of the right size. 'Don't be so pessimistic. I brought you along to help and to lend moral support, not to paint a picture of doom and gloom.'

'It's just that I have this image of Bobby coming home and finding his window broken. He won't be pleased.'

'I'll leave a note,' Sam offered as he stopped in front of an appropriate window. 'What do you think about this one?'

Dean frowned and stepped forward to examine it more closely. 'I guess it's as good as any of the others. We'll need something to jimmy it with. Maybe the jack handle in the car. I'll go see what I can find.' He swung around and then halted abruptly, staring at the next window on the side of the cottage. 'Well, hell.'

'What's wrong?' Sam turned to follow his gaze. 'I don't…'

'Looks like someone else has been here ahead of us,' Dean said softly.

Sam peered more intently. 'Do you really think… oh.' For the first time he felt a distinct chill of unease. It was obvious the window had been crudely but effectively forced open. The frame was badly marked from whatever instrument had been used, and the window itself was still half raised. 'Vandals?'

Dean was examining the damage. He didn't look around. 'Surely you're not going to be satisfied with the notion that a couple of young punks broke into your uncle's house. Not after all the exotic mischief and mayhem you've been imagining.'

'Don't be sarcastic. What are you doing?'

'I'm going inside to have a look. ' Dean shoved the window completely open and casually swung a leg over the sill.

'Wait!' Sam grabbed for his arm. 'What if someone's still in there?' he hissed.

Dean glanced inside the house and shook his head. 'The place is empty.'

'You can't be sure. It's very dangerous to corner burglars in a house. You're supposed to go call the cops before going inside.'

'Is that right?' Dean said vaguely. Then he swung his other leg over the sill and dropped lightly to the floor inside.

Annoyed, Sam leaned through the window to lecture him further. But the words caught in his throat as he took in the chaos of the room. 'Oh, my God.'

'Umm.' Dean walked past a bookcase that had been ransacked and came to a halt in front of the old roll top desk.

Feeling stunned, Sam followed him through the window. Inside the house he stood staring in speechless dismay as Dean examined the desk. Sam remembered the desk well. He had helped Bobby select it at a junk shop in Seattle. His uncle had spent hours refinishing it.

Now the surface was a jumble of strewn papers, books and magazines. The drawers had been unceremoniously hauled open and emptied. Folders of personal business papers had been tossed on the floor along with a notebook of Bobby Singer's sketches.

Infuriated more than anything else by the way the sketchbook had been dumped on the well-worn Oriental rug, Sam bent down to retrieve it. 'Stupid bastards,' he muttered as he tried to smooth the pages and close the cover. 'Whoever it was just wanted to make a mess. I thought we had all the mental flakes down in California.'

'We have a few up here in the Northwest.' Dean walked slowly through the living room into the adjoining kitchen. 'Looks like someone really enjoyed themselves.'

'It's sick.' Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell of decaying food. The contents of the refrigerator had been thrown against the walls. 'Absolutely sick.'

'Or else someone wanted it to look that way,' Dean murmured slowly.

Sam swung around to stare at him wide-eyed. 'Damn, I hadn't thought of that. That's a possibility, isn't it? Whoever broke in might have deliberately tried to make it look like the work of vandals. That way no one would be able to figure out what he or she had been looking for.'

'On the other hand, it might have really been a couple of genuine vandals.' Dean shrugged, moving on into the single bedroom.

'Make up your mind!' Sam followed after him.

'How can I? I don't know what's going on here any more than you do.'

'Good point.' Sam couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. 'Given that basic fact, I guess we'd better go find the local police or sheriff or whatever passes for the law here.'

Dean paid no attention to this. He was looking at the phone that still sat in it's cradle on the table beside the bed. Whoever had gone through the room yanking open drawers and closet doors had ignored the telephone. A red light was flashing, indicating a message had been recorded.

'The message on there is probably from me.' Sam said quietly. 'The one I left when I called him a couple of days ago to let him know I would be arriving. There was no answer, so I just kept driving.'

Dean pressed the button that started the playback. The first voice on the machine was Sam's, as he had predicted.

'Uncle Bobby? I'm driving up from California to see you. Just wanted you to know I took your advice. Mom and Dad are in deep depression over the whole thing but I think they'll survive. Maybe they're getting used to my life-style changes. Personally, I feel great. You were right. See you tomorrow.'

Sam caught his breath when he heard the next voicemail. His uncle's easy growl was as unconcerned and laconic as ever.

'Dean, if you and Sam are the ones listening to this, then you'll have realized I have a small problem on my hands. I can't explain everything just now but don't worry. We'll talk later. Pay attention to me. This isn't anything I can't handle but I need a little time and privacy. Some unfinished business regarding your wedding present, I'm afraid. It's tough enough to find just the right gift for a special couple like you and Sam. I didn't realize it would be even harder to protect it. Do me a favour and don't bother the local cops. This is a personal matter. Oh, and Dean, Sam tends to have a rather vivid imagination and he doesn't handle waiting very well. A distinct lack of patience in that boy at times. I heard his message when I phoned in to leave my own. I know he's on his way here and when he doesn't find me he'll probably look you up. Which, of course, explains why you're standing there listening to this message. Aren't you impressed with my wondrous logic?' There was a rough chuckle. 'Take care of him for me and keep him out of trouble until I get back. I'll see you as soon as I can.'

The message clicked to silence while Sam stood utterly still, staring at the machine in astonishment and dread. 'Wedding gift?' he finally got out very weakly.

Dean punched the save button. 'I told you Bobby had plans for us,' he reminded him dryly.

'Dean, none of this makes any sense!'

'Yes, it does.' Dean turned to look at him. His light eyes were unreadable, but the set of his handsome features was intently serious. 'Bobby says that whatever's going on is private business. He'll take care of it. He doesn't want any help or he'd ask for it. And he wants me to keep you from getting involved. I'm supposed to take care of you. It all seems clear enough to me.'

'Don't be ridiculous. There is nothing clear about this mess.' Sam turned abruptly and stalked back into the living room. 'Damn Uncle Bobby anyway. Why couldn't he have left a simple straightforward message or called you and told you exactly what was going on? He headed toward the rifled desk. 'Just like him to leave a lot of questions lying around for us to try to answer.'

'He says it's a private matter. He doesn't want us involved. He probably didn't call because he didn't want to alarm us unnecessarily. On the other hand, he figured if we got this far he'd better leave some sort of message.' Dean followed Sam on silent feet, stopping to examine the stack of books that had been stripped from the bookcase.

'If it's such a personal matter, what was that business about protecting our wedding present?' Sam shot Dean a scathing glance as he began picking up the scattered magazines that had been spilled from an end table. Bobby Singer was an inveterate magazine reader. Sam had frequently teased him about the number of subscriptions he maintained.

'You know your uncle. There are times when he simply can't resist throwing out a teaser.' Dean seemed unconcerned.

'It's his unfortunate sense of humour, I suppose.' Sam sighed and shuffled a stack of insurance papers. 'Dean, this whole thing is going to drive me crazy. How are we going to know he's all right?'

'We won't until he gets back. But I've told you before, Sam. Your uncle can take care of himself.'

'I don't like that comment about 'unfinished business,'' Sam went on unhappily. 'It sounds dangerous. Like something from his past coming back to haunt him.'

'Bobby was right. You do have an active imagination.'

'Well?' the younger man challenged. 'How would you interpret that message?'

'Like something from his past that has come back to haunt him,' Dean admitted in a resigned tones. He picked up a stack of books and put them back on the shelf. 'The real problem is that food on the walls in the kitchen. That's going to be a mess to clean. It's going to take quite a while, too.'

'Stop changing the subject! This is important. We have to figure out what's going on.' Sam frowned intently down at the papers in his hand. Predictably enough, many of them, even the most important looking ones, contained small sketches and doodles. Bobby Singer was forever covering books, papers and notepads with his drawings. He did them almost unconsciously, Sam knew. Bobby could be talking about one thing and sketching a totally unrelated subject. He remembered once having coffee with him in a restaurant and discussing Sam's growing dissatisfaction with his latest job. Bobby had carried on a detailed and logical conversation while making comical character sketches on a napkin of the people in the next booth. 'What do you suppose whoever did this was looking for?'

'That's something we can't even guess until Bobby shows. Up.'

'Except that we know it has something to do with our so-called wedding gift,' Sam muttered in growing annoyance. 'What in the world could Uncle Bobby have been talking bout?'

'If he'd wanted us to know, he would have told us.'

'You're awfully casual about this, Dean.' Sam glared at him over his shoulder.

'I know your uncle very well, Sam,' Dean said. 'He doesn't want us getting involved.'

Sam ignored that, tapping an impatient knuckle on the desk. Thoughtfully he stared out the window toward a stand of fir. 'He said he'd already gotten the gift. Now he has to protect it.'

'Something like that.' Dean re-shelved another batch of books.

'So whoever did this must have been looking for whatever Uncle Bobby calls our wedding present.'

'Are you going to give me a hand cleaning up the kitchen?'

'You know, Uncle Bobby once told me he believed in that old theory that the best hiding place was the one that was in full view. People really do tend to overlook the obvious. He says answers are always quite clear when you know where to look.' Sam glanced around the room with narrowed eyes. 'He'd had some experience along those lines. He ought to know what he's talking about.'

Dean went into the kitchen. 'If whoever made this mess didn't find what they were looking for, the odds are you won't find it either. It may not even be here. Or Bobby might have removed it and hidden it somewhere else. Or this chaos might really be the work of casual vandals who happened on an empty cabin. A coincidence, Sam, we don't have a clue. There's no point beating our heads against a stone wall. Let your uncle take care of his own business.'

Sam heard water running in the kitchen sink. Reluctantly he put down the stack of insurance papers and got to his feet. Dean was right. They should clean up the kitchen first.

'Uncle Bobby said he was thinking of putting in a fancy alarm system. Too bad he didn't get around to it in time to prevent this,' he commented.

'I know. I was going to help him install it,' Dean said from the kitchen.

Sam took a step forward and his toe brushed a thick sheaf of papers that had been lying on the floor beside the chair. The pile of neatly typed pages was still bound with a rubber band. Automatically he leaned down to pick it up. Halfway down the first page a single word, underlined, leaped out at him. _Phantom_.

'Dean! Here's a copy of your manuscript,' he called, aware of a surging sense of interest in what he held. Curiously he flipped through a handful of pages.

'I think I mentioned that I had given a copy to Bobby,' Dean said softly from the doorway of the kitchen.

'Would you mind if I…?' Sam's request to read the manuscript died on his lips as he looked at the pencilled sketch in the right-hand corner of the first page. There were other doodles at the bottom of the page, but it was the one at the top that made him grow cold.

The drawing had been done hurriedly, but Bobby Singer's talent lay in the quick character sketch. Strong, simple lines defined the figure in only a few brief strokes. It was the head of a wolf.

'No,' Sam whispered as he stared at the drawing. 'God, no.'

'Sam? What's wrong?' Dean tossed aside the sponge he had been holding and came toward Sam, his expression one of grave concern.

Feeling decidedly unnerved, Sam sank back down into the desk chair and looked up at him. 'See that drawing on your manuscript?'

Dean glanced at the page and then back at Sam's strained face. 'What about it? Your uncle is always doodling and sketching. You know that.' He leaned down to flip through the rubber band bound stack. 'Look. There are little drawings on nearly all the pages.'

'I know. But this is more than just an idle sketch.' Sam swallowed, struggling to remember details. 'There was a real wolf in his past, you see. A renegade killer. Never mind, it's a long story. Uncle Bobby told me about him one night over a few drinks.' Dazedly he stared down at the drawing. 'Dean, if this is the 'unfinished business' my uncle is taking care of, he's in real trouble. We've got to do something.'

Dean's mouth tightened. He reached down and picked up the manuscript. 'We are going to do something. We're going to stay out of Bobby's way and let him handle his unfinished business.'

'Dean, we have a responsibility!'

'My responsibility is to take care of you. Very clear; very simple. That's what your uncle wants and that's what I'm going to do. Now, if you really want to do something useful for Bobby, come on into the kitchen and help me clean up the mess. If we don't take care of it, some helpful, foraging skunks or worse will take care of it for us.'

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was genuinely worried, Dean reflected a few hours later. Tense, nervous, restless and worried. Dean had spent the past three hours alternately trying to reassure Sam that Bobby Singer could handle his own problems and trying to convince him that he was letting his imagination play havoc with his common sense. Neither attempt had been particularly successful. But then, he hadn't had a lot of experience attempting to soothe the fears of others.

It had been late by the time they'd finished cleaning up Bobby's cabin, and when Dean had suggested they spend the night at a nearby motel instead of driving all the way back to Seattle, Sam hadn't argued. Dean had scrupulously booked two rooms at a charmingly rustic little lodge located just off the main highway.

Now, as he studied Sam across the restaurant table, it occurred to Dean that he was going to have his hands full trying to carry out the task Singer had assigned him in that damned voice message.

Nothing was going the way he had thought it would, and the knowledge irritated him. For the better part of the past year the unknown Sam had been hovering in the back of his mind, his nebulous image planted there by Bobby Singer.

'The two of you are going to be great together,' Bobby had told him with vast assurance. 'But you both need a little time. You've got to get _Phantom_ out of your system and he has to reach a few conclusions on his own. I figure in another few months-'

'Bobby, you may be my best friend but I don't want you playing matchmaker. Understand?' Dean had been very firm even though he'd already downed a great deal of beer before the conversation had gotten around to the subject of Singer's nephew.

'You're going to love him, pal. Trust me. The two of you have a lot in common.'

'That's rather doubtful, isn't it?'

'I know people, Dean. You should realize that by now. Sam's perfect for you. He's intelligent and full of life. He's also fundamentally genuine and honest. He'll help you keep your life in balance. You need a dose of enthusiasm and optimism. You're too cautious. Furthermore, he's capable of making a commitment to the right man. Luckily for you, he hasn't found him yet. And he won't as long as he hangs around those wimps he's been dating for the past few years. He's smart enough to lay with the dross but wait for the real gold.' Bobby had grinned. 'He's really very good at playing with life. In college he played at being a pseudo-intellectual. He used to spend hours arguing about philosophical treatises. A lot of people thought he was serious, including his teachers. Got good grades. When he graduated he decided to play at being an artist for a while. Rented a genuine garret, wore his hair long and went around in paint-stained jeans. He actually sold a couple of paintings through a gallery that made the mistake of taking him seriously. Then he went through an activist phase during which he went around protesting against environmental polluters. Eventually he wound up as the epitome of what they call a 'streamer. He always did have a good sense of timing. He also has a real flair for management. He enjoys life the way some people enjoy a game.'

'And just what am I going to be offering him in return?' Dean had asked roughly as he popped the top on another can of beer. The discussion was outrageous, but such conversations were allowable when you were sharing several beers with your only real friend. Besides, there was something about the unknown Sam that intrigued Dean more than he wanted to admit. He found himself wondering what Sam would think of him if Bobby ever got around to introductions.

'Sam needs someone strong, someone who can appreciate what he has to offer. He also needs a counterfoil for his natural enthusiasm and impulsiveness. Someone stable and steady. When he does give his heart for real, it will be completely. He'll need someone who will make the same commitment to him that he'll be making to them. A lot of people aren't capable of that. They might know several fancy names for spaghetti or how to select the right brand of running shorts but that's about the extent of their sensitivity.'

'Been reading those articles on the 'new male,' I see. I warned you about that. You should cancel some of those magazine subscriptions. Bunch of garbage and you know it.'

'Is that so? Well, how many people would you trust with your life or your wallet or your lover these days?' Bobby had countered.

That had struck a chord, Dean remembered. 'Not many. Maybe you. That's about it.'

'And you're about the only one I would trust with anything I value. I value my nephew, Dean. Perhaps because there's something in him that reminds me of my self.'

'So you're going to give him to me? I'm not sure that you're taking your responsibilities as his uncle seriously enough.'

'I know what I'm doing. You should be thanking me. You need a man who can give himself completely. You also need someone who has a real understanding of loyalty. You could also use someone who occasionally shakes you up a bit. You're so damned controlled, son, that it worries me at times. It's as though you've built a carefully organized, well-defined little world for yourself and nothing gets in unless you've fully analyzed and comprehended it first.'

'I like to be sure of things, Bobby. You know that.'

The older man had grinned complacently. 'Once you get to know Sam you'll realize you can be sure of him in all the ways that count. There's a lot of love and loyalty in that man, and the person who taps it is going to be very rich. You'll see.'

The conversation, as Dean recalled, had gone downhill from there. The beer had flowed freely, and mercifully it had inspired Bobby Singer to bring up other topics for discussion. Dean couldn't remember too many of them the next morning, but he definitely recalled the little matter of Singer's nephew.

_Phantom_ had absorbed most of his time and energy in the ensuing months. He hadn't seen a great deal of anyone, not even Bobby, but the older man had known what he was doing. As usual.

The seed had been planted, and as he'd worked steadily, often painfully, on the novel, Dean had found the presence of the mysterious Sam hovering in the corners of his mind Sometimes late at night after he'd put in hours on the manuscript he'd dosed himself with brandy and gone to bed thinking about what he would do if he had Sam there. He'd let himself fantasize about having a man who loved him, a man who knew what loyalty meant. And then he'd gone to sleep with a body that still ached from the stirrings of an irrational passion.

On the rare occasions when he did talk to Singer, Dean had heard himself ask after Sam with what he hoped was deceptive casualness. Bobby had supplied information readily enough, telling him about his success in his job or the latest 'wimp' he was seeing.

When he'd begun to realize he didn't like hearing about the newest males in Sam's life, Dean had finally acknowledged to himself that he might have a problem. It was ridiculous and quite asinine to start wanting a man you'd never met, but the sense of anticipation had taken firm root. That anticipation had been followed by a curious sensation of possessiveness that was even more perplexing than the fantasy-induced desire.

Sam's undefined image had remained on the borders of Dean's mind, always waiting for him. Sam was there when he took a break during the day from _Phantom_. He emerged to haunt him before he went to sleep at night. And he casually made himself felt when Dean sat by himself in front of the fire in the evenings sipping a lonely bottle of beer.

Bobby had said he'd see about introducing Sam to Dean when the book was finished. Over a period of months Sam had begun to seem like the prize at the end of a quest.

Last night when he'd returned from his small celebration of the sale of _Phantom_ and walked home to find the man in his study, Dean had experienced the disorienting sensation of having met his destiny. The quest had been completed and now his gift was within reach. The fantasy hadn't diminished since the previous evening.

It should have, Dean thought objectively as he watched Sam prod a sun-dried tomato in his pasta salad. Fantasies were supposed to die quick deaths when reality took over. But reality was proving very interesting in this case, far more gripping than fantasy.

'So what are we going to do?' Across the table Sam finished up his salad and set down his fork. Challengingly he waited for Dean to say something brilliant.

Dean realized he couldn't raise to the challenge. 'Nothing.'

'As an answer, that lacks a certain something,' Sam muttered. 'In management training I learned that you're always supposed to sound confident and in charge.'

'Maybe I should take the course.'

'This is not a joke, Dean. We can't just sit around and wait.'

'Why not? It's what your uncle wants us to do. We'll drive back to Seattle in the morning. You can stay with me on the island until Bobby returns.'

Sam eyed him with abrupt wariness. 'I don't think that's such a good idea.'

'It sounds perfectly reasonable to me. You're certainly not going to spend the time waiting in Bobby's cottage. If you think I'd leave you there knowing that whoever went through that place once might return, you're out of your little ex-corporate skull.'

He hadn't raised his voice, but Sam felt the diamond hard determination in him more clearly than if he'd shouted the words.

'Don't worry,' Sam said bluntly, 'I'm not particularly eager to stay alone at Uncle Bobby's cottage. Not after seeing that sketch of the wolf.'

Dean glared at him and picked up his wineglass. 'What the devil is all this nonsense about the wolf, anyway? You've been acting as if you'd seen a ghost ever since you saw Bobby's dumb doodle on my manuscript.'

'I did. In a way.' Sullenly Sam stared at the tablecloth in front of him, remembering. 'It's a long story, Dean.'

'We've got a long evening ahead of us,' the other man noted grimly. 'You might as well tell me the tale.'

'I only know bits and pieces of it.' Sam sighed and pushed aside his empty dinner plate. 'Uncle Bobby never told me all the details. He probably couldn't because of security reasons, although lately my uncle has begun to demonstrate an amazing disgust for all the bureaucratic paranoia that generally controls matters of security.' A brief flicker of amusement lit his eyes for a few seconds as he thought about that. He heartily approved of the trend.

'So what did he tell you about this wolf business that has you so upset tonight?'

'There was a man,' Sam began slowly, recalling the conversation with his uncle that had taken place nearly a year ago. 'A man who carried the code name of Wolf. Uncle Bobby said it suited him.' He gave Dean a level glance, willing him to understand the importance of what he was trying to say. "Bobby said he was so good at what he did, so dangerous, that when he walked into a room the temperature seemed to drop by twenty degrees.'

Dean considered that in silence for a moment and then murmured very distinctly, 'Bull.'

Sam scowled at him. 'It's true.'

'Your uncle's right. You do have an overactive imagination.'

'It was Uncle Bobby who told me about the guy. That business of the room going cold was his description, not mine. He meant that the man could literally chill your blood. Even Uncle Bobby's blood, apparently. Now do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?'

Dean shrugged and buttered a roll. ' Go ahead.'

'All right. But only if you're going to listen seriously to what I'm saying. This is not a wild tale, Dean. Uncle Bobby meant every word the night he told me the story. He was… upset.'

'Bobby was upset?'

'Yes. You see, he knew the man they called Wolf. The guy was supposed to be his replacement. Uncle Bobby had the job of grooming him to step into his shoes when he retired.'

'Bobby officially retired five years ago.'

Sam nodded. 'But my uncle kept tabs on his replacement, I guess. He must have been very uneasy about him right from the beginning. He said this Wolf was almost frighteningly ruthless. He seemed to have no emotions, no human sensitivity. Sending him on a mission was like aiming a gun and pulling the trigger. From what Uncle Bobby said, the man would probably qualify as a sociopath. You know, someone who doesn't really function in society. No emotional equipment. Sick. Working for the intelligence group Uncle Bobby was in gave him an outlet for his antisocial tendencies and his ruthlessness. If he hadn't gotten that kind of job, he probably would have ended up as a first-class criminal.'

'Bobby said all this?' Dean seemed both sceptical and reluctantly fascinated.

'Some of it I've inferred from his description that night. My uncle was very restless about something that evening. He wanted to talk to someone, I think. I've never seen him in quite that mood. And he'd certainly never made a habit before of talking about his, uh, former business associates. Sometimes he'd tell me stories and tales but they were always deliberately vague on details. I could tell that the story wasn't being embroidered or altered for security reasons this time. Anyhow, he'd come down to spend a weekend with my family in San Diego. We had all gone out to dinner, and when we were finished he drove me over to my apartment. I knew something was bothering him, and when he started talking, I just let him go on until he'd gotten it all out of his system.'

'Did he give you any specific details on this character he calls Wolf?' Dean asked softly.

'You mean like a description or his real name? Of course not.' Sam smiled wryly. 'Even when Uncle Bobby's in a chatty mood, he knows how to watch his tongue. I guess he spent too many years being cautious. All I know about Wolf is that Bobby was worried. I think he believed his protégé might be slipping over the edge. Wolf was dangerous enough when he could still be aimed by his superiors and fired like a weapon, but if he could no longer be at least minimally controlled… if he decided to go into business for himself, for example…'

'You're saying Bobby thought the guy might have gone renegade?' Dean demanded.

Sam took a breath. 'That's the impression I got that night. I only know that Uncle Bobby was tense and worried about what he had helped create.'

Dean chewed meditatively on another chunk of his roll. 'Dr. Frankenstein and his monster.'

'I know it sounds melodramatic,' Sam admitted, 'and if I hadn't seen that little drawing of a wolf's head on your manuscript, I wouldn't have thought twice about that conversation with my uncle. But after hearing the voice message and seeing the mess that the cottage was in and then finding the drawing-' he broke off, his anxiety clear in his eyes.

'Why do you suppose your uncle happened to make that little doodle on the front page of my manuscript?' Dean asked reflectively.

Sam lifted one shoulder negligently. 'You know him. He's constantly sketching and doodling. He uses what ever is handy. I've seen him make the most intricate little drawings on cocktail napkins or paper towels or the back of his income-tax forms. Your manuscript probably happened to be nearby when he was thinking of this Wolf person. Or…' Sam's eyes widened as a thought caught his attention. Maybe something in your manuscript reminded him of the wolf.'

'Not likely. Not from the way you've described the guy,' Dean said flatly.

Sam thought about that. 'Then he must have been thinking of the wolf at a time when your manuscript was lying nearby. Which means that something was making him uneasy. He tells us in his voice mail that he's going to take care of unfinished business. I think… I think Uncle Bobby always considered Wolf unfinished business.'

'Because he'd trained him and then turned him loose?'

'Something like that. How would you feel if you'd been assigned to train someone and had him turn into a… a criminal or worse. Perhaps a renegade killer. Wouldn't you feel you had to do something about it?'

'Not a pleasant thought,' Dean said slowly.

'But wouldn't you feel responsible?'

'I might.'

'Then maybe-'

Dean interrupted abruptly. 'But, Sam, that doesn't explain Bobby's message completely. Remember, he said he was out to protect our, er, wedding present.'

'I know. I can't figure out that part,' he admitted morosely.

'Face it. We don't stand a chance in hell of figuring any of this out until your uncle gets back and tells us just what was going on. The only thing we can do is wait.' Dean's rare smile flickered briefly at the corners of his mouth. 'At least I got assigned a task to keep my mind off Bobby's problems.'

'What task?' Sam frowned at him across the table.

'Taking care of you. I'm suppose to keep you out of mischief, remember?'

'Oh, that.' Sam waved the entire matter aside. 'That was just a casual comment on my uncle's part.'

'Nevertheless, I feel obliged to take it seriously. After all, you're worried, and if someone doesn't keep an eye on you, I can envision you getting into all sorts of trouble.'

'Don't' be ridiculous.'

'You might,' Dean concluded without any trace of amusement at all, 'even manage to make some trouble for your uncle.'

That caught Sam's attention. 'What do you mean?'

'I think that, left to your own devices, you'll convince yourself that Bobby really is in trouble. You'll start poking around, perhaps asking questions. There's no telling what small waves you might set in motion that could ripple back to Bobby.'

Sam studied him, stricken. 'You're serious, aren't you? I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize my uncle.'

'I know you wouldn't do anything deliberately, but how could you even begin to guess what might or might not have an effect?'

'Oh, come off it, Dean, I'm hardly in a position to do anything dramatic one way or the other,' he protested.

'No?' Dean pushed aside his plate and leaned forward, his arms folded on the table in front of him. 'What if you go back to talk to that neighbour of his? What if you decide to do a little investigating on your own? Find out if anyone noticed someone hanging around your uncle's cottage recently, for example. And what if someone notices you and takes exception to your involvement? I can see you doing all sorts of little things that could blow up in Bobby's face. Or worse yet, your own face.'

'That's ridiculous and you know it. Now you're the one whose imagination is running wild,' Sam scoffed. But deep down he felt a prickle of guilt. It had occurred to him only a few minutes earlier that it might be interesting to talk to his uncle's neighbours. A vague plan to talk to some of them had been formulating in the back of his mind. He knew his flushed cheeks betrayed this.

Dean gave his a very deliberate look. 'Going to deny you were making a few plans?'

'Well, no, but I certainly don't think…' he trailed off, flustered.

'Umm. I think my little assignment is going to be the tough one,' Dean groaned. 'I have a hunch Bobby knew exactly what he was doing when he asked me to keep an eye on you. If you're finished with your food, let's head back to the rooms. It's getting late.' He stood up without bothering to wait for Sam's agreement. The waiter hurried over with the check.

Disgruntled at the abrupt termination of the meal and the conversation, Sam got to his feet more slowly and allowed Dean to lead him out of the small restaurant. His head was spinning with worry, speculation and half-formed plans. In fact, his attention was focused so completely on his thoughts that he didn't notice where Dean was guiding him until he suddenly became aware of flagstone under his sturdy boots. Dean was leading Sam along a path that wound around the motel.

'A little late for a walk, isn't it?' Sam asked, glancing into the shadows of darkened stands of trees. Behind them the lights of the motel flared in the night.

'I thought a walk before turning in might calm you down a bit.' Dean took a firm grip on his arm as Sam ducked under a low hanging branch and stumbled slightly on a cluster of pebbles. 'Watch your step.'

'That's tough to do since I don't see well in the dark,' Sam complained.

'I'll guide you.'

'You can see in the dark?' he asked very politely.

'Umm. I've always had good night vision.'

'That must come in handy for this sort of thing,' he allowed still more politely.

'What sort of thing?'

'Enforced midnight marches with unsuspecting people,' he drawled.

''It's only nine-thirty and believe it or not I can't even remember the last time I went for an evening walk with anyone, unsuspecting or otherwise.' Dean hesitated, mulling that over. 'It's very pleasant.'

'Even though I'm having trouble walking in a straight line?'

'That's the best part.'

'Oh.' his brief amusement vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and Sam went back to thinking about his missing uncle.

'It won't do any good, you know,' Dean said after a moment.

'What won't do any good?'

'Worrying.'

'But I'm so good at it.' Sam sighed.

'What you need is something to take your mind off your problems.' Dean came to an unexpected halt, catching hold of Sam with both hands as the younger man stumbled into him. 'And I think I need the same thing,' he added almost under his breath as he stood very close in the darkness and ran his palms down Sam's arms.

Sam felt the strength in Dean's hands as he was pulled in close. Aware of a fierce surge of sudden awareness as he realized Dean was going to kiss him. For an instant he tried to read the shadowed gaze, seeking answers to questions he couldn't formulate. But in the almost nonexistent light Dean's eyes were colourless and infinitely unintelligible. Sam was enthralled by his own reaction to that gaze. It lured him, promising something he wasn't sure he wanted. Before he could fathom the strange sensation, Sam felt himself pressed against a warm chest, and in the next moment Dean's mouth was on his.

What startled him most about Dean's kiss was the urgency in it. It seemed to wash over him, a combination of male curiosity, hunger and carefully restrained desire. Sam had found that the first kiss from a man was usually tentative, polite and as practiced as he could make it. This was something else again. There was nothing tentative or polite about it. Nor was there any element of practiced seduction in the damp heat of Dean's kiss.

Sam was tinglingly aware that it was the most honest kiss he had ever received. He wasn't sure how he knew that with such certainty but there was absolutely no doubt in his mind. It was like finding gold after years of sorting through scrap metal. The vivid realization brought forth a response from him that he'd had no intention of indulging until it flared into life. Then it could hardly be denied.

Slowly, savouring the moment of unexpected awareness, Sam slid his arms around Dean's neck and found the dark strands of his hair with questing fingertips. He was twenty five years old, he thought, and not given to such episodes of instant attraction. This was something unique and he was wise enough to know it.

'Sam?'

Slowly, reluctantly, Dean drew his mouth away. He raised one hand to tangle in Sam's hair while with the other he stroked the length of his back. Sam could feel the intensity in the other man as Dean pressed the hard lines of his lower body against Sam.

'I believe you said this was supposed to give me something else to think about?' Sam murmured huskily.

'I don't know about you, but I may have given myself a little too much to think about tonight. Forgive me, Sammy, but I've been wondering what you would taste like for a long time.' Once again he slanted his mouth across Sam's.

Sam felt his lips being parted and then Dean was deep in his unresisting mouth, exploring him with such intimacy that Sam heated with desire. For countless moments time stood still for him there on the narrow path. He gave himself up to the intriguing, captivating touch of a man who qualified as a near-stranger and wondered why he seemed so right to all his senses.

He offered no resistance as Dean drew him deeper and deeper into the embrace. When Dean's palms slipped down to cup the contours of his ass, he nestled closer. Dean's leaping desire made itself felt through the fabric of his jeans and Sam's own body struggled to answer the ancient call. Sam had never known such driving urgency. When Dean freed his mouth to seek out the sensitive place behind his ear, he heard himself murmur a throaty response. Dean's breath was exciting and warm in his hair.

Then, slowly at first but with gathering strength, the night breeze began to make itself felt. Sam became vaguely aware of the gathering chill as it swirled and eddied around them. The warmth of Dean's body warded off some of it but not all. Dean seemed to realize what was happening at about the same moment and slowly relaxed his grip.

'I think it's time to go back,' he said huskily.

'Yes.' Sam didn't argue. Dean was right. It was time to go safely back to his own bed. But he felt unexpectedly breathless and he found himself holding on to Dean.

For a moment longer Dean's palms framed his face. Sam sensed the hesitation in him and was warmed by it. Dean was reluctant to break the spell and that pleased him. He didn't want to be the only one caught up in the magic, Sam realized.

'If it weren't getting so cold out here and if you'd had a little more time to get used to the idea…' Dean let the rest of the sentence trail off as he took Sam's hand and started back toward the lights of the motel.

'Get used to what idea?'

'Never mind,' Dean told him laconically. 'My imagination is proving to be as vivid as yours, although it seems to be running along different lines.'

Sam smiled smugly to himself in the shadows, knowing exactly what was going through Dean's head. Dean wanted him, and the knowledge sent a primitive thrill through his veins. Dean wouldn't do anything about it tonight, of course. It was much too soon. They barely knew each other and there were a great many factors that might get in the way of a relationship between them. Still, tonight he would go to sleep with a sense of anticipation that was entirely new to him.

But an hour later as he lay in bed in the room next to Dean's Sam realized that, anticipation or not, sleep was not going to come easily that night. Dean had succeeded in distracting him for a while, he decided ruefully, but now that he was alone again, too many jumbled thoughts were swirling in his head. His mind skipped around from worries about his uncle and his 'unfinished business' to memories of Dean's urgent kiss. He needed something to relax him.

'Like a good book,' he decided aloud, pushing back the covers. And he knew just where to get one.

Padding barefoot across the carpet, his flannel sleep pants riding low on his hips, Sam went to the duffel bag in the corner. Opening it, he reached inside and removed the manuscript of _Phantom_ that he had picked up off his uncle's desk. For a moment his gaze rested thoughtfully on the sketch of the wolf in the upper corner, and then he told himself to ignore it. He was after relaxation, not added worry.

A deep curiosity filled him as he climbed back into bed and started _Phantom_. Silently he admitted to himself that it was the desire to learn something more about the man he had spent the day with rather than a wish to see how the story ended that prompted the feeling. How much could you tell about a man by his writing, he wondered.

On the surface, _Phantom_ was a high adventure. It involved the perilous race to retrieve a cache of gold that had been smuggled out of Kuwait during the chaotic days of the Gulf War. The treasure had been hidden somewhere near the Persian Gulf in Saudi Arabia and had been inaccessible for years because it was simply too dangerous to go after it. Only a handful of men knew the location.

As the story opened, it was learned that more than a treasure had been hidden. Secret documents that could destroy the career of a powerful government official had been buried along with the gold. Suddenly any risk was worth taking to retrieve the cache.

The action was well plotted and moved with the swiftness of an avalanche, but what held Sam's attention until nearly two in the morning was the inner conflict of the protagonist, the man called Phantom.

He was portrayed as a man who had clearly reached the limits of his emotional and physical endurance. Too many years of tension and violence had taken a savage toll. Now he had been assigned one last job by the government agency for which he worked. He was told to retrieve the gold and the documents hidden with it. At any price.

In the end the man called Phantom did the job he had been assigned to do, but it had nearly destroyed him. Then he had accidentally discovered that the incriminating documents buried with the gold constituted a shattering indictment of the man who ran the very agency for which he himself worked. The secret papers pointed at treason at the highest levels. Phantom had learned far too much. He had not been expected to survive his mission, but now that he had, his life was in jeopardy.

By the time Sam finished the harrowing and emotionally gripping tale, he felt exhausted but not at all relaxed. The writing had been lean and stark, which didn't surprise him. Dean Winchester struck him as the kind of man who wouldn't use one more word than necessary to tell his story. But he was left with the same question he'd had when he'd begun reading. How much insight could you gain into a man by reading his fiction?

Restlessly he restacked the manuscript pages and climbed back out of bed. He put _Phantom_ back in his duffel bag and turned to eye the rumpled sheets. He really didn't feel like climbing back into bed just yet. The book had left him far too keyed up and strangely tense.

On impulse he walked over to the sliding-glass door that opened onto the balcony and unlocked it. Taking a deep breath of the chilled mountain air, he stepped outside.

'You should have been asleep hours ago.'

Sam started at the sound of Dean's voice. Turning, he saw him lounging against the railing of the balcony next to his. Dean had one foot propped on the lowest rung and his elbows planted on the top one. The shadows hid the expression on his face, but Sam was aware of a strange tension in the atmosphere between them.

'I couldn't sleep,' Sam murmured. 'I've been reading.'

'_Phantom_?'

'Yes.'

'Learn anything?' Dean inquired sardonically.

Sam half smiled. 'Only that I think you're going to have a very successful career as a writer of suspense novels. I couldn't put it down, Dean.'

'But did you learn anything?' he pressed softly.

Sam wished he could see Dean's face. 'You know I started it out of curiosity, don't you?'

'Umm.'

'Well, I finished it because it was a very gripping tale. But I don't think I learned much about you in the process.' he paused, thinking. 'No, that's not true. I guess I did pick up a few things along the way.'

'Such as?'

'You have a set of rather fundamental values, don't you? You believe in integrity and justice. Things like honour and loyalty are important to you. If they weren't you wouldn't have been able to portray the hero's emotional turmoil so well. You tore that poor man apart, Dean. Halfway through the book I almost hated the writer for doing that to his protagonist. And then in the end, even though you pull together all the strands of the story and see that justice is done, you leave us wondering a little whether or not Phantom will survive emotionally.'

Even as he spoke Sam realized the truth of his own words. he had learned something about Dean Winchester by reading his manuscript, and what he had learned was disturbing on some levels. This was not a man who would ever understand games, let alone a light hearted approach to life. On other levels Sam was aware of a strong feeling of respect. There were so few men who knew what it meant to have a personal code of honour and integrity. Dean must know or he would never have been able to create Phantom. On still another level of awareness Sam experienced a sensation of compassion. Dean must have known what if felt like to hold yourself together by sheer willpower. Sam wondered what the other man had gone through in order to comprehend the depths of that kind of struggle.

'You wanted a miracle cure?' Dean turned his head to look out toward the night-shrouded forest.

'I like happy endings,' Sam admitted with a soft smile.

'I'm not sure there are any.'

Sam leaned sideways against the rail, the chilly breeze cutting through the thin fabric of his sleep pants and t-shirt. 'Dean, I swear, if you turn into one of those cynical New York-style writers I won't read your next book.'

Dean looked at him then and Sam saw the flash of a genuine grin. 'Maybe the trick is not to write endings. Just cut the story off after the main issues have been resolved and let everyone go their own way. Readers like you can assume it all ends happily.'

'You won't be able to fool me,' Sam warned. 'I know a real happy ending when I see one.'

'I'll work on it,' Dean promised so quietly Sam could barely hear him.

'Dean?'

'What is it, Sam?'

'About the basic story line of _Phantom_…'

'What about it?'

'Where did you get the idea of the gold being hidden during the Gulf War? It was very ingenious. And you made all the action so realistic.'

'I got the idea from your uncle. He told me the tale of the gold.'

'Really? It's a true story?'

'It's just a legend, of course. There are always a lot of tales and legends that come out of a situation like Kuwait. Bobby told me the story one night about a year ago. Supposedly the gold was going to be used by U.S. intelligence to buy information and finance certain clandestine operations. Your uncle told me privately that it's far more likely the gold was supposed to be a payoff from some big arms deals that were going on in the east. Kuwait was a hotbed for that kind of thing. At any rate the last man to actually see the gold was a U.S. agent. He arrived at his rendezvous point minus the treasure. No one really knows what happened.' Dean shrugged. 'And thus are legends born.'

'You added the bit about the secret incriminating documents?' Sam hazarded.

'It's called literary license. I needed an extra fillip to make the tale more than just a treasure hunt.'

'You certainly accomplished that.' Sam huffed a small laugh. 'I really empathized with your hero. I think I fell a little in love with him.'

There was a moment of silence from the other balcony and then Dean said very calmly, 'I'd much rather you fell in love with me.'

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I guess it bears repeating that I did not write this fic. I STOLE this fic and then slashed it. The author, Jayne Ann Krentz, is a wonderful writer and I just love this story but really wanted to see Dean and Sam take over the main roles, (kinky little bitch that I am). All I did was change Sam's nightgown into a t-shirt and sleep pants and get the boys some lube and condoms when things started to get hot - sorry, not in this chapter ;)

So, anyway, I did not write this.

* * *

><p>Perhaps it was the knowledge that he was concealed in the shadows of his balcony and that Dean was isolated, in turn, on his own little island that made Sam feel safe enough to indulge the dangerous curiosity. Or perhaps he was still wondering just how much he had learned about Dean from reading his book. Then again, it might have been simply his endless need to probe the man's words, searching for the real meaning. Whatever the cause, he couldn't resist asking the question.<p>

'Why?'

'Because I think it might be very pleasant to have you fall in love with me.'

The answer was simple enough, Sam had to admit to himself. Straightforward and honest. Just like the man. The bluntness of it served to burst the small bubble of excitement within him before he'd even had a chance to fully analyze it. He stifled a small sigh of regret.

'Pleasant,' he mused. 'That sounds a little insipid.'

Dean seemed surprised at this interpretation. 'No. Not at all. I've learned to value the pleasant things in life,' he continued slowly. 'Pleasant things are civilized. They bring an element of grace and gentleness and peace into our lives. A glass of wine before dinner or a bottle of beer on a hot afternoon, a late-night walk on a beach, a friend you can trust with your life, a person whose love is unshakable even if he knows you've been to hell and back. A wise man values such things.'

'It must be the writer in you that can put the love of a person in the same category of pleasantness as a bottle of beer. Don't expect a real man to be impressed, however. We like to think we're special,' Sam said with a degree of lightness he wasn't feeling.

'You're not going to take me seriously, are you?'

'Not tonight. It's two o'clock in the morning and we've had a disturbing day. I feel a little strange after reading _Phantom_; restless in some way. And as for you, you're a man whose understanding of life's pleasures seems to be different from the way other men view them. I'm not sure I understand you. All in all, I think there are too many jumbled emotions and unknown factors hanging around tonight for me to risk taking you seriously.' he said it all very easily but Sam believed every word he was uttering.

'You may be right,' Dean agreed. He paused before asking, 'are you always this cautious with a man?'

Sam laughed in spite of himself. 'It's the only area of my life in which I am careful. Or at least that's what my family would tell you. A person can get burned falling in love with someone who's only interested in the superficial pleasures and pleasantries life has to offer. And there are so many men out there who are only interested in the superficial things. Uncle Bobby is right. But then, he usually is when it comes to judging people.'

'I'm different, Sam,' Dean told him as he faced the sea. 'I'm not one of your superficial wimps.'

'No, I don't think you are. But I'm a long way from figuring out just exactly what category of male to put you in, Dean Winchester. And until I do…'

'You'll be cautious?'

'I think so. Good night, Dean.' Deliberately breaking the spell, Sam turned and stepped back into his room. Resolutely he closed the sliding-glass door and pulled the curtain. He stopped for a moment, listening to the silence, trying to examine the strange emotions swirling within him. Perhaps he was only feeling the remnants of the passion Dean had ignited with his kiss.

But that kiss had ended hours ago. Perhaps he was simply disquieted by the tale of Phantom, he thought. No, there was far more to it than the restlessness left by the powerfully told story of a man on the brink. He had to face the fact that his suspicions concerning Dean's serious approach to life were true. In all probability he really did look upon Sam as the prize he'd been promised by Bobby Singer.

What made him deeply uneasy was that he wasn't resisting the idea of being handed over to Dean nearly as much as he ought to. Was it because he couldn't bring himself to take the notion seriously? Or was it because he was finding himself attracted to this stranger in a way that he'd never experienced with anyone else?

_Pleasant! _Dean thought it would be _pleasant_ to be loved completely by a person he could trust. Sam gritted his teeth. The man had a lot to learn emotionally. Either that or he needed a new vocabulary! After having read _Phantom,_ though, he couldn't believe Dean lacked emotions.

But after having read his novel he could believe he was the kind of man who was determined to stay in control of the emotional side of his nature. The story of Phantom told him that on some level Dean viewed the emotional side of life as full of risk. He would want to be very certain of a person's love before he could allow himself to trust it, Sam realized.

It was all too complicated to figure out tonight and there were so many other things to worry about. Sam took a deep breath and went back to bed.

It was the kind of conversation that neither of them would want to mention the next morning. He felt certain of that. The late hour and the inherent safety of being on separate balconies with the soft rustle of the wind in the trees as background had combined to create a strange mood that had infected both of them. The mood would be gone by morning, and he had a hunch Dean was wise enough to let it go.

Besides, he didn't really care to be lumped into the same category as a glass of wine or a bottle of beer.

Out on his balcony Dean watched the shadowy sway of a tall pine and decided that, as a writer, he really ought to pay more attention to his choice of words.

Obviously words such as 'pleasant' and 'pleasure' were not the right ones to use around Sam Campbell. To Sam they were part of the games one enjoyed in life. Not matters of seriousness. Sam just didn't realize how much Dean valued the softer things in this world, or how seriously he took everything. Well, he'd try to watch it in the future.

After all, he sure as hell didn't want to fall into the same category as all those lightweight males Singer claimed Sam dated.

Straightening away from the railing, Dean paced back into his room and closed the door. He had been unable to sleep earlier, his body far too aware of the fact that Sam was awake next door. The glow from his room while he read had lit his balcony and had been plainly visible from Dean's own room. Now that Sam had finally turned out his light perhaps he'd be able to get some rest.

The next morning Sam decided to take the initiative. He would put the mood and the conversation back onto a safe track. Setting an assured, easygoing tone was second nature for him. It was a skill he'd picked up early on in the world of corporate management and perfected even more in the world of casual dating.

'I've been thinking,' he said as Dean slid behind the wheel the next morning, 'that you never really got a chance to properly celebrate the sale of _Phantom_. You had a beer by yourself and a glass of wine with me later, and that was it. Since then, I've had you running around helping me break into a private house, clean up a nasty mess and ease my concerns. This evening I think we should celebrate properly.'

'How?' Dean turned the key in the ignition.

'I'll cook dinner for you. How does that sound?' Sam smiled.

'It sounds very pleasant.' His mouth twisted. 'I mean it sounds very nice.' He cleared his throat and tried again. "It sounds great.' He appeared pleased with his final choice of words. 'Can you cook?'

'A good 'streamer can fix the current gourmet fad food at the drop of a hat,' he assured Dean.

'How about an ex-fad food like pasta?'

'No problem, as long as it's not macaroni and cheese. Imbedded in my brain cells is a recipe for a wonderful pasta and vegetable dish that will knock your socks off.'

'No meat?'

'Absolutely not. Meat would ruin the delicate flavour of the dish, anyway. We'll need a nice Chardonnay to go with it.'

Dean nodded. 'Sounds like we'd better make a stop at the Pike Place Market before we board the ferry home.'

'Terrific. I'd love to see the market. I've heard about it for years. I keep meaning to go whenever I visit Uncle Bobby, but somehow we've never had the time.' Sam's sudden enthusiasm bubbled over.

'It's one of Seattle's main attractions. The only problem is finding a place to park. The place is usually crawling with tourists on a day like this.'

They followed the highway down out of the mountains, crossed the bridge that connected Bellevue and Mercer Island to Seattle and then descended the steep streets downtown to First Avenue. Seattle's aggressive new skyline faced Elliott Bay, hugging the western coast of the continent and waiting eagerly for the daily traffic of cargo ships from around the world. The Pike Place Market, an old and honoured institution, occupied prime territory a block from the waterfront. But if anyone had dared to suggest that it be razed and replaced by high rise, he would have been lynched by the local citizens, Dean told Sam. Seattle loved its market, with its blocks of vegetable stands, craft shops, bakeries and restaurants.

Dean pulled off the neat coup of finding a parking space not more than a block from the busy outdoor market. He seemed quite proud of himself for being able to avoid one of the expensive parking garages. Men always seemed to see it as a challenge to find street parking, Sam realized with an inner grin. He congratulated Dean as he led him up a flight of steps into the bustling atmosphere.

'I got lucky,' he acknowledged modestly. 'Stay close. I don't want to lose you.'

Sam resisted the urge to give an exasperated roll of his eyes and just gave Dean a little smile instead. As if the other man would lose him. With Sam's height he couldn't see it happening anytime soon.

Street musicians, a mime, a puppeteer, craftspeople and various and assorted panhandlers added noise and interest to the basic colour of a working public market. Sam was fascinated by the array of intricately arranged vegetables in the produce stalls. The fish vendors hawked their wares in loud voices, waving live lobsters around to attract attention. Meat vendors offered every cut imaginable. Tourists and locals thronged the crowded aisles and spilled out onto the cobbled street that ran down the centre of the market. Sam noticed that Dean did not glance at either the fish or meat stall.

'There's a shop where we can get the pasta at the far end of the market,' Dean advised as Sam halted to study an artistically arranged pyramid of red peppers. 'And there's a wine store across the street.'

'Why don't you go select the wine and pick up the pasta while I choose the vegetables?' Sam suggested. 'I'll meet you back at the flower stall on the corner. That way we can save a little time. It's getting late.'

Dean hesitated. 'Sure you won't get lost?'

'I'll be fine. The flower stall in fifteen minutes.' he flashed a reassuring smile at Dean.

'Well, all right. You said you wanted a Chardonnay?'

'Right.' Sam turned to plow through a gaggle of tourists who were trying to photograph the red peppers forming a pyramid. He was intent on finding the perfect broccoli. And he mustn't forget some Parmesan cheese, he reminded himself. There was a cheese vendor up ahead.

Somewhere between selecting the broccoli and choosing the fresh peas Sam began to lose track of time. Fifteen minutes went by very quickly and he was in the process of ordering the grated Parmesan when he happened to glance at his watch and realized he was going to be late meeting Dean back at the flower stall. But surely Dean wouldn't hold him to the exact minute, he decided. Dean would realize Sam was bound to be a little late what with all the hustle and bustle and the endless distractions around him. On the other hand, Sam had a hunch Dean Winchester was a man who valued punctuality. No sense kidding himself, he thought wryly. Dean would insist that Sam be where he said he would be when he said he would be there. Demanding punctuality was an element of control one could exert, and Dean liked exerting control.

Sam thought about that as he ordered the cheese, realizing he had just had a strong insight into Dean's personality. The older man needed to be in control of his environment. He needed to be sure of things. Maybe Sam had better hurry.

Sam handed his money to the cheese vendor and accepted the package of Parmesan. It was as he turned away to plunge back into the stream of foot traffic that a large, male tourist careened into him.

'Excuse me,' Sam said hastily, hanging on to his armful of packages. 'It's so crowded here, I-' he broke off as the man gripped his arm.

'Your uncle wants to see you,' the stranger grated. His fingers tightened, digging into Sam's skin through the fabric of his shirt. The man began pushing Sam deeply into the passing crowd.

Sam nearly dropped his parcels. His mouth fell open in shock. 'My uncle!'

'Come on, kid, we don't have time to waste.'

Sam looked at the man, about the same height as him, narrowed dark eyes, gray-streaked black hair with an aquiline cast to his features. Sam was suddenly very alarmed.

'Who are you?' he managed, aware that he was being pushed forcefully toward the far end of the cobbled street. Around him the crowd ebbed and flowed. A string of cars vainly searching for the few parking spaces right next to the market stalls inched through the crowds. The flower stall was in the opposite direction. 'What do you know about my uncle? And let go of arm!'

The man didn't answer, intent on making progress through a cluster of tourists wearing name tags that declared they were all from New York. They seemed to resent his insistence.

'Hey, watch it, buddy,' one of the group snapped.

'I thought folks out here were supposed to be laid back, not pushy. I coulda stayed home if I wanted this kinda treatment,' muttered a heavyset woman with a huge camera strung around her neck.

The man with the face of an eagle didn't bother to respond. He simply forced his way through the grumbling tourists, pushing Sam ahead of him.

'Wait a minute,' Sam gasped, beginning to get irritated. 'I'm not going with you until you tell me who you are and what you know about my uncle! Now, unless you want me to start shouting-'

'Sam!'

He turned his head at the sound of Dean's voice. 'Dean! Over here.'

With a savage oath the man holding his arm released him. Sam spun around, slightly off balance, trying to watch him as he melted into the crowd. He disappeared in an instant.

'Sam, what the hell is going on?' Dean came up beside him, pushing aside a few more New Yorkers in the process. He paid no attention to their enraged lectures on manners. 'When you didn't show up at the flower stall on time, I figured you'd gotten lost. You're just lucky you're so tall. Who was that guy?'

'He said my uncle wanted me,' Sam huffed. 'He grabbed my arm and started pushing me along as though I were a sack of potatoes or something. Dean, he knew who I was! How could he possibly know me? I've never seen him before in my life. And how could he know about Uncle Bobby?' he felt a wave of calm wash over him as he was pulled firmly against Dean's side. Dean's arm wrapped around his waist, fastening him securely as he began propelling him back toward the car.

'What did he look like? Tell me his exact words, Sam,' Dean ordered.

Sam clutched his packages and tried to think. 'He looked very vicious. Sort of like a hawk, and his eyes were mean.'

'Sam, that's not exactly a description, that's an emotional reaction, for heaven's sake.'

'Well, I can't help it. I didn't have a lot of time,' he defended himself. 'He – he had dark eyes and dark hair that was turning gray. I'd say he was probably in his late-forties. He was wearing very nondescript clothes. I can't even remember what colour his jacket was. He said my uncle wanted to see me and that we didn't have a lot of time to waste.'

'Those were his only words?'

'I think so. He was quite rude. Just ask those New Yorkers.'

'He simply walked up to you and said that?' Dean demanded. 'Nothing else?'

Sam shook his head, trying to think. 'No, I don't think so. I asked him who he was and what he knew about Uncle Bobby, but he didn't answer me. I was getting ready to start shouting when you showed up. Dean, I have to tell you, I was very glad to see you. In fact I was never so happy to see anyone in my life as I was to see you a few minutes ago!' It was the truth, he realized. The sight of Dean had meant safety.

They reached Dean's car and he unlocked the door. His eyes narrowed as he settled Sam in the front seat. 'You're trembling.'

'No I'm not,' Sam denied looking anywhere but at Dean. 'That man startled me, that's all,' he said evenly. 'There was something a little frightening about him.'

'Given the fact that it looks like he was trying to abduct you, I imagine he was somewhat scary,' Dean growled as he slipped into the seat beside Sam and started the car. 'The bastard. I should never have left you alone.'

'I can take care of myself.' Sam muttered, then paused. 'You know, I said he had hawk like features but you could describe them another way,' he noted thoughtfully.

Dean slanted him a sharp glance. 'How?'

'You could say that with those dark eyes and those strict features he looked a little like a wolf. Ruthless and potentially violent.'

Dean froze, his hand resting on the steering wheel. 'You're letting your imagination get carried away again, Sam.'

'I don't think so,' he murmured, staring out the window. Behind them an impatient driver who wanted the parking space honked loudly.

With an oath Dean put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He headed down toward the wharf and the ferry docks. 'Sam, listen to me. I'm the writer in the crowd, remember? Leave the melodramatic touches to me.'

'But I didn't get a really _cold_ feeling.' Sam went on, remembering his reaction. 'I was startled and my palms got damp, but it wasn't like the temperature dropped twenty degrees or anything.'

'For Pete's sake, it's eighty-three degrees today! The meanest-looking guy in the world is hardly likely to make you feel as though the temperature dropped into the low sixties.'

'True,' Sam admitted dryly. 'And I suppose Uncle Bobby only used that bit about the temperature drop for effect.'

'You uncle likes to tell a good tale and he's quite happy to embellish it for a willing audience.'

Sam's mouth curved upward. 'I know. I've been a willing audience since I was five years old.' But there had been something different about the way his uncle had described the man called Wolf. Sam hadn't had the impression that his uncle was embroidering a story for his benefit. He had been in an oddly reflective mood the night he'd told Sam about the man he'd trained. Bobby Singer had been uncharacteristically quite that evening. Almost morose.

'Forget your uncle's descriptive turn of phrase,' Dean said grimly as he guided the car into the line of traffic waiting for the white ferryboat. 'We've got more important problems on our hands, thanks to him.'

Sam shivered. 'You mean the fact that someone knows who I am and managed to find me in that crowd at the market?'

'Exactly. We have to assume someone followed us. Probably from your uncle's cabin. Must have been watching it. The freeway was busy coming into Seattle today. It would have been hard to spot a tail even if I'd had the sense to be looking for one.'

Dean's self-disgust was plain in his voice and it bothered Sam. 'It's certainly not your fault that man found me in the market. For heaven's sake, don't blame yourself, Dean.'

'Well, he's not going to find you alone again.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I'm going to start doing my job,' he stated resolutely.

Sam smiled. 'You mean keep an eye on me?'

'Umm. You'll stay at my place, not the inn, while we wait for Bobby to get in touch. I don't want you out of my sight again.'

Sam absorbed the deep determination in his voice and knew he meant every word. Dean had decided he had a job to do, so he was going to do it properly. That meant in Dean's mind that he had to be in complete control of the situation. Sam would be spending the next few days with him. On the whole, Sam wasn't inclined to object at the moment. The man in the market may not have scared him… really, but the relief of having Dean appear at the critical moment was still with him. Sam wouldn't forget that sensation soon. The instinctive knowledge that Dean offered safety and protection was one more element to add to his growing list of things that seemed to fascinate him about Dean Winchester.

'What do we do about him?' he asked after a moment.

'The man you think is Wolf?' Dean shrugged negligently. 'Nothing right now. There isn't anything we can do except take care to keep him away from you.'

'But we have no idea when Uncle Bobby will get back from wherever it is he's gone. We can't just wait indefinitely,' he protested.

'Sammy, a long time ago I learned the value of patience. We'll wait.'

'I think we ought to do something, Dean.'

'We'll wait,' he repeated stonily.

'But that man seemed to know where Uncle Bobby was,' he pointed out.

'If that character knew where your uncle was, why would he need you?' Dean asked simply.

'Good point. Why _would_ he need me?'

'Possibly because he intended to use you to lure your uncle out into the open.'

Sam swallowed uneasily. 'You have a devious turn of mind, Dean.'

'Umm. Probably an occupational hazard of being a writer of thrillers.'

'So we wait?'

'It's either that or try the police – and your uncle specifically asked us not to do that.'

'I doubt there's much they could do anyway,' Sam said glumly.

'No, I don't think there is.'

'I guess we'll have to start locking your front door, won't we?' Sam offered, trying to keep his tone light.

'Lock the front door?' Dean glanced at him quizzically. 'Oh, you mean the door you walked through so easily the other night.'

'No offence, Dean, but I got the distinct impression you haven't had to be too security conscious on your island,' he said quietly.

'Don't worry about it. You'll be safe. There's an alarm system installed. Bobby helped me install it a year ago.'

'It wasn't on the night I walked in the front door?'

'It was on.'

'But I never heard an alarm and no police came,' he protested.

'My system works on a slightly different principle from most alarm setups.'

'What principle?' Sam was deeply curious now.

Dean parked the car inside the ferry and reached for the door handle. 'The idea that it's sometimes simpler and more effective to trap an intruder inside the house than attempt to keep him out. I can set it in the reverse mode, however, and keep intruders out just as easily as I can let them in. When I'm inside the house I set it that way. But when I'm gone, I use the first setting.'

Sam blinked, not finding the idea either simple or effective sounding. But what did he know about alarm detection systems, Sam asked himself. 'I see,' he responded vaguely. 'If I had tried to get back out of the house the other night, would I have found myself trapped?'

Dean's mouth picked up at the corners in one of his brief flashes of humour as he watched Sam get out of the car. 'Weren't you?'

'Hardly. I mean, you just walked in and happened to find me in your study,' Sam grumbled. Dean was leading him up to the passenger deck and it was hard to hear him distinctly in the noisy stairwell.

'I knew where you were in the house before I came through my own front door, Sam. I carry an electronic device that warns me when the system's been activated. The device starts working within a mile of the house.'

'Really?' Sam was impressed.

'You never had a chance,' Dean drawled.

Sam laughed. 'Is that supposed to reassure me?'

'If you don't like my alarm system, blame your uncle. He's the one who helped design it.'

'It sounds like something he'd come up with,' Sam admitted. 'It's that sense of humour of his. It would be just like him to design a system that can reverse the general principles of burglar detection. It fits in with some of his other theories, such as hiding something right out in the open where the whole world will see and overlook it. Well, if you're convinced it's safe, I'll trust your judgment.'

'I'll take care of you, Sam,' Dean said very seriously.

He meant it, Sam realized. The knowledge touched him on a very deep, perhaps primitive level. Sam hadn't met a lot of people who would say that sort of thing these days. And if they did say it, a person couldn't risk believing it completely. Dean Winchester, Sam decided, meant it. And he could trust him.

Sam thought of something as they took a seat in the passenger section where they could watch the Seattle skyline recede into the distance. 'Did you remember the pasta?'

'How could I forget the featured item in my celebration dinner?' Dean asked whimsically.

In spite of the unnerving scene at the public market, Sam found himself enthusiastically preparing his specialty pasta and vegetable dish later that evening. Dean poured each of them a glass of wine and lounged in the kitchen, watching as Sam put the finishing touches on the dinner. Dean seemed to be fascinated with his every move. The kitchen took on a cozy feeling that made Sam almost forget his unease of that afternoon.

'I can see you're going to expand my culinary horizons,' Dean noted as he sat down at the kitchen table he had set while Sam had fixed the Parmesan flavoured sauce for the pasta. 'This sure beats macaroni and cheese.'

'When did you stop eating meat?' Sam asked casually. Too late he remembered the last time he had asked Dean a question on the subject he had cut him off rather quickly.

'A little over a year ago,' Dean answered calmly.

Relieved that he didn't seem to be taking offence over the issue, Sam decided to risk another question. He couldn't seem to stop wondering about every aspect of this man, Sam realized. 'You don't miss it?'

'No.' Dean plucked up a spinach leaf from the salad bowl. 'Great dressing on the salad.'

'Thank you.' Sam hesitated and then tried again, delicately. 'Did you just suddenly lose your taste for meat?'

'In a way.' Dean eyed him silently as he sat down. 'I was going through a mid-life crisis at the time. When I emerged, a lot of things in my life had changed. I quit my job, moved to a new state, started a book and decided I really preferred being a vegetarian.'

'All those changes sound wonderful.' Sam smiled. 'I'm in the mood for some massive changes myself. Have you ever married?'

Dean arched his eyebrows as he forked up a mouthful of pasta.

'Sorry, I didn't mean to pry,' Sam mumbled, lowering his eyes to his plate. It was difficult to know just how far he could push with this man.

'It's all right,' Dean surprised him by saying after a moment. 'I'm just not used to personal questions. No, no long term relationships. There's never been time. What about you?'

'No. I always seem to be changing careers and that tends to keep the available pool of men changing, too. The right one never seemed to come along.'

'You'll know him when you find him?'

'Definitely.' Sam laughed softly. 'Uncle Bobby has been telling me for two years that the right man never was going to come along in the world in which I was living. He's always been a bad influence on me. Just ask my parents. They think I get my occasional bursts of unpredictability and unconventional behaviour from his side of the family.'

Dean nodded. 'He can be unpredictable and unconventional but he has a way of getting things done. He really did give you to me, Sam. I'm not making that up.'

The camaraderie he had been feeling faded into a new kind of uneasiness. 'It was a joke, Dean. I'm sure of it. Even Uncle Bobby wouldn't go that far.'

'Then why the matching gifts?'

'The crystal apples? They probably just took his fancy in some shop and he decided to buy a couple.'

'He told me he had them specially made by a craftsman on the coast who works in glass,' Dean said.

'Dean, I really don't know why he would give us a matching set of crystal apples, but I don't see that it matters one way or the other!'

'And what about that voice message at his cottage? The bit about protecting our wedding gift?'

'Now that,' Sam admitted dryly, 'was fairly bizarre. Your guess is as good as mine. But knowing Uncle Bobby, he was probably referring to something obvious.'

'It would be just like him,' Dean agreed thoughtfully.

'When he shows up,' Sam went on forcefully, 'I'm going to have a few pointed remarks to make to him.'

It was after dinner that Sam began to experience a strange nervousness. He knew the focus of it was the inevitable approach of bedtime and the necessity of making a dignified exit that was neither provocative nor rude. You learned to distinguish such subtle variations of behaviour when you'd been through as many different careers as he had, he decided ruefully.

It wasn't that he was expecting a heavy-handed pass from Dean. He didn't seem to do things heavy-handedly as far as Sam could tell. Just very deliberately. He certainly wouldn't pressure Sam into bed. But there was no denying the sexual tension that now existed between them, and if he alluded to it, he would find it difficult to deny.

The graceful approach was to keep things light and casual, he decided. That's the tone he would strive to maintain. After this first night it would be easier. Tonight would set the tone for the rest of his stay under this roof. Sam sensed it instinctively.

'Ah, a checkerboard,' he exclaimed as he followed Dean into the living room after dinner. It struck him as the perfect answer to the question of how to spend the rest of the eyeing. 'Are you any good?'

'At checkers? Fair, I guess. I'll give you a couple of games.' Dean poured two brandies and carried them across the room to the table where Sam was busily setting up the game. 'I've played your uncle a few times.'

'He prefers chess.'

'So do I, usually.'

'I only played it during my college years,' Sam confided cheerfully. 'It seemed to fit the academic image. Haven't played it since. I didn't really like it.' he lined up the checkers in their little squares. 'All that business about strategy and having to think several moves ahead was far too much like work to me. When I play games , I like to _play_.'

'I see.' Dean gave him a half-questioning, half amused glance. 'Checkers may be simpler but it's a game of strategy, too.'

'You play it your way and I'll play it mine,' Sam ordered, reaching out to make the first move.

Four games later they faced each other across the width of the table. Dean's expression was one of wry wariness. Sam was feeling quit cheerful.

'That's two wins apiece,' he pointed out. 'One more game to settle the matter.'

'Who the hell taught you to play?' Dean grumbled as he set out his pieces.

'I'm strictly self-taught,' Sam acknowledged brightly. In truth, he was secretly pleased with his two victories. They had been achieved with wild, haphazard moves that clearly offended his opponent, who had won his two games with careful, precise strategy.

'It shows. You didn't win those two games with hard work. You got lucky on some wild moves. You have an extremely off-the wall manner of playing, if you don't mind my saying so.'

'You're just envious of my inborn talent. The way you play, a person would think the fate of the nation hinged on your next move. You're much too serious about the game, Dean. You'd have more fun if you'd just loosen up a bit.'

Dean looked at him, green eyes intent. 'I'm afraid I tend to be a serious sort of man.'

'Not given to fun and games?'

'No.'

Sam caught his breath as he realized that they were suddenly, inexplicably discussing more than a game of checkers. For reasons he didn't want to analyze he was afraid of the new direction. Desperately he tried to find a casual way of turning the conversation around before it strayed into the realm of the personal again. 'Well, we'll see whose approach works best with this next game. Just a warning, I'm going to be at my most off-the wall!'

'In the long run, strategy and planning always succeed more often than wild luck, Sam.'

'Prove it,' he challenged rashly.

Dean shrugged and proceeded to do so. Fifteen minutes later Sam was left staring in vast annoyance at the board. He didn't have a single playing piece left on it. Dean had beaten him with cool, deliberate ease, never relenting for a moment. Every move from first to last had been plotted and carried out with ruthless intent. Sam's cheerfully haphazard approach had netted him only a few of Dean's playing pieces. Even those, he was convinced, Dean had deliberately sacrificed at various points to lure him into traps he had set.

'I demand a replay! You don't play fair. You play exactly like my uncle.'

'What's unfair about it?' Dean asked, tossing the checkers back into the box.

'I don't know, but there must be something sneaky and underhanded about all that strategy,' Sam complained. 'It must be quite terrifying when you and Uncle Bobby play together.'

'The games tend to last a long time,' Dean said with a faint smile.

'Who wins?'

'We're fairly evenly matched.'

'You mean you win frequently?' Sam asked curiously.

'Umm.'

'That's interesting. I don't know of anyone who can consistently beat Uncle Bobby at checkers or any other game. But sometimes I can take him,' he added proudly.

'With one of your wild moves?'

'Yes.' he grinned. 'The thing about people who always use intense strategy is that you can occasionally upset them with my technique.'

'Only occasionally. Not consistently,' Dean informed him politely. 'You got lucky twice tonight, but that was about the best you could do, playing with your style.'

'Something tells me that people who play with your style will never appreciate people who play my way.'

And on that note, Sam decided suddenly, he had probably better make his gracious, unprovocative exit to the bedroom Dean had given him earlier.

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Okay, here comes a little of the 'M' rating to this fic. And may I ask where the hell were the condoms when this book was originally published? I had to add some! C'mon people, safe sex!

* * *

><p>Dean watched moodily as Sam went off to bed and wondered how he was going to get to sleep himself. When Sam had disappeared into the bedroom, he sprawled in an armchair and considered having another brandy. He needed something to squelch the restlessness that seemed to be thrumming through his veins.<p>

This sensation was far worse than the disoriented feeling he'd had when he'd finally finished the book and uploaded it to the publisher. Then he'd felt suddenly at loose ends, as if everything had ended too quickly. But tonight's uneasiness was multiplied a hundred times by the dull ache of desire.

He could not remember the last time he'd desired a person as intensely as he wanted Sam.

Dean stared across the room at the waiting brandy bottle and decided against pouring himself another glass. He needed it, but this was not the night to indulge. Not when he was standing guard over a man who had no real conception of the kind of trouble that might be waiting outside the door.

'Singer, you old devil, you really pulled out all the stops this time, didn't you?' he muttered, leaning his head back against the chair. 'Who or what are you hunting?'

Whoever Singer's quarry was, Dean didn't have any doubts about the outcome. Bobby had been out of the business for a long time, but he'd once been the best there was at what he did. He'd get his man. In the meantime, Dean knew exactly what was required of himself. Singer had assigned him the task in that phone message. His responsibility was to take care of Sam.

'We also serve who only sit and wait,' he paraphrased, mockingly solemn.

The fact that someone had actually approached Sam that afternoon was eating at him, fuelling his unease and gnawing at his mind. His instincts were to run with Sam, take him as far away as he could, and hide him well. But when he left emotion out of the process and concentrated on logic, he knew Sam was safest here in the house. The alarm system Singer had helped him install was good. The best. The place was a walled fortress. Actually, when he thought about it, most of his life had become a walled fortress. Strong, secure, protected, with everything under control.

Until he'd walked into his den the other evening and found a young man with the crystal apple standing in the filtered gold of a setting sun.

He really should be trying to get some sleep, Dean thought. He wasn't doing himself any good sitting here fantasizing about a man with an apple. And there was no need to stay on guard all night in this chair. There would be ample warning if anyone tried to get to Sam while he was here. But somehow the thought of going off to a lonely bed was depressing. It didn't make any sense, because he was used to a lonely bed. But tonight the prospect bothered him.

Forcing his mind away from the tantalizing image of Sam undressing for bed down the hall, Dean wondered just where Bobby Singer was at the moment. The older man had dropped out of sight and would probably stay out of sight until it was all over. Good, logical strategy. In the meantime all Dean could do was wait and keep watch over the man in his care.

Patience, he had told Sam that afternoon, was of great value. He wasn't sure Sam had believed him. The thought edged his mouth with a wry flicker of amusement. The young man did things with a certain impulsive flair. Dean could see why he probably wasn't cut out for the corporate world in the long run. Sam didn't have the patience for elaborate strategy and he didn't show any interest in restraining his impulsiveness. In the short time Dean had known him Sam had enthusiastically broken into two private houses, comprehended and been a little shaken by the gut-level action of _Phantom_, nearly gotten himself abducted, and fixed him a celebration dinner with all the excitement of a person who genuinely cared about his success. Sam had topped that off by calmly taking himself off to bed as though he were simply a visiting relative rather than a man who'd been subtly tantalizing his host all evening.

Yes, he could see why Sam probably couldn't have gotten too much further in the corporate world. They liked flair in that world, it was true, but they liked it coupled with a certain amount of predictability and internalized respect for the corporate image. Dean had a strong hunch Sam didn't have any such thing as an internalized respect for that type of image. Just as he probably hadn't had any for the academic image or the artistic image. Sam would play at maintaining the corporate façade the same way he played at being a 'streamer. After a while, upper management would probably have figured out that he wasn't one hundred percent committed to their world. Apparently Sam had figured it out first and decided to make a graceful exit.

The same kind of exit he'd made tonight, Dean concluded grimly. Did Sam know he was sitting here, his body in a state of semi-arousal while his mind tried to anticipate the next move the guy outside in the shadows might make? He wished to hell Singer would call and provide some clue as to what was happening. In the meantime all he could do was sit tight and practice the virtue of patience. It was a virtue he'd learned well.

Two hours later Sam came drowsily awake and lay still in the wide bed wondering what had brought him up out of a light sleep. It had been hard enough to get to sleep in the first place. He was momentarily annoyed at the intrusion.

Then the reality of where he was and why came back and he sat up, absently rubbing his eyes. He listened for a moment but heard nothing. A wary glance at the curtained window showed no menacing shadows. Why on earth was he awake? Perhaps it was simply nerves. He certainly had a right to a small bout of nervous tension, he assured himself. Stretching his arms up over his head, he thought about getting up for a drink of water or a glass of milk. Then he noticed that light was seeping under his bedroom door from the hall. Dean must still be up, he realized in concern.

If Dean wasn't able to sleep, it was because of him. Dean was sitting out there in the living room, worrying. Sam was certain of it. The man took his responsibilities too much to heart. He didn't want Dean staying up all night to stand guard over him.

Pushing aside the covers, he climbed out of his bed and went to the door. The hall outside his room was empty and the light left on in it seemed to be the only light in the house. Perhaps he was wrong. Maybe Dean had gone to bed after all. Sam would feel much better if he had.

As long as he was up he might as well see if there was any milk in the refrigerator. Stepping out into the hall, Sam walked toward the living room, intent on reaching the kitchen. It was as he left the lighted hall and moved into the shadows en route to his goal that he saw him.

'Dean?'

The older man was standing near a window, his lean frame a dark silhouette amid the various dark shapes of the living room. Sam knew he was watching him, although the silvered green eyes were lost in pools of shadow.

'Do you make a habit of running around a lot at night?' Dean asked gently. 'This is the second evening in a row that I've found you out and about instead of safely in bed.'

Sam smiled. 'The fact that you've been awake to observe my nocturnal habits means yours are a little odd, too. Why aren't you in bed, Dean?'

'I wasn't sleepy,' he said simply.

'I don't believe you.' Sam took a few steps forward, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor. 'You're worried, aren't you? I though you said the house was safe.'

'It is.'

'Then you should be in bed, not prowling around out here.'

'Is that what I was doing?' He seemed vaguely amused. 'Prowling?'

Sam moved still closer. He came to a halt a foot away from Dean. 'I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep unless you do. I'm not used to someone fretting over me like this. It makes me feel uncomfortable, Dean. You don't need to assume this kind of responsibility toward me.'

'I don't have any choice.' Dean's tone was suddenly grim.

'You mean because of that voicemail my uncle left?' Sam groaned. 'Dean, you can't take that too seriously. I'm not really your responsibility. There's absolutely no need to feel that you have to play bodyguard.'

'After what happened this afternoon?' he asked dryly.

Sam shook his head resolutely. 'When it comes right down to it, Dean, that was my problem, not yours. I mean, I certainly appreciate your interest in my welfare, but I don't want you to feel you have to get so involved.'

'I've already told you; I don't have any choice.' Dean lifted his hand to touch Sam's cheek. 'And I think you know it.'

Belatedly Sam remembered that Dean could see much better in the dark than he could. He was very much afraid Dean might be able to read the uncertainty in his eyes as he looked at him. 'Dean, please…'

'What are you afraid of, Sam? That you might come to rely on me? Your uncle says you move in a world where you can't count on anyone when the chips are down.'

'Sometimes my uncle exaggerates,' he said huskily, acutely conscious of the roughness of Dean's fingertips. Sam wanted to move away from his touch and couldn't.

'Your uncle knows a lot about human nature. He learned it the hard way.'

'But he's prone to sweeping generalizations,' Sam protested. 'He met a couple of the people I've dated and decided everyone in my world was like them. I don't think he approves of the 'new male,' Sam added, trying for a spark of humour.

Dean didn't respond. His hand slid down the side of Sam's throat, resting just above the collar of his t-shirt. 'I don't think you approve of the 'new male' either, Sam, or you would have been taken by now.'

'It sounds as though you're prone to sweeping generalizations, too! Actually, there is a lot to be said for the new breed of male. He acts as if he's sensitive, communicates his thoughts and feelings with all the right words; he's into things like art and gourmet cooking and he's able to handle the idea of a mate in the professional world, or says he is…'

'And he thinks in terms of relationships instead of commitments. But a man like you needs commitment, according to your uncle. That says it all, Sam. Your uncle is right. You would never have found what you were looking for in your old world.'

'How can you know so much about me?' Sam murmured, feeling a bit confused and unsure.

'Your uncle has told me a lot about you. For nearly a year he's been feeding me bits and pieces of information about you. Enough to torment me and bait me and tease me. I've remembered everything he said. And now that I've had you with me for a couple of days I've had a chance to learn a few things on my own.'

'You're an expert on human nature, too?'

'Umm.' The hand on Sam's throat was warm and compelling. Dean traced the muscular curve of Sam's shoulder as if deeply intrigued by it.

'And did you gain your knowledge the hard way, also?' Sam demanded, striving to maintain his sense of balance, both emotional and physical.

'There is no easy way.'

'Dean…'

'There's nothing else to say, Sam. We're together in this. I'm going to look after you, whether you think I have the right to do so or not.'

Sam moved his head in a slow negative. 'Because my uncle 'gave' me to you?'

'Perhaps. I haven't had a lot of gifts in my life. I've learned to take care of the ones I do get.'

'Just as you've learned to value life's little pleasures?'

Dean muttered something under his breath, something that sounded disgusted. 'You misinterpreted what I meant last night.'

'Did I?'

'And now you're using that misinterpretation as an excuse to withdraw from me tonight, aren't you?'

'Yes,' Sam acknowledged, aware of an ache of pain and regret because of his own defensive behaviour. He wanted to toss it aside and give in to the promise of the moment. Feeling torn in a way he had never known before, he couldn't bring himself to move away from Dean and walk back to the bedroom. It should have been a simple enough action. He knew it would certainly be the wisest thing to do under the circumstances.

'Sam, you don't have to be afraid of me,' Dean said so softly he almost didn't hear him. It was the urgent need in his voice that got through to him.

'I know that.' The bluntly honest words were out before he could halt them, a response to the urgency in him. Hastily he tried to retreat. 'It's not that I'm afraid of you, I simple don't want you assuming so much responsibility toward me.'

'I know. Because you're afraid that if you give me that right, you'll come to rely on me and at some point in the future that could be dangerous, couldn't it?'

'Dangerous?'

'You're afraid that one day you'll turn around and I won't be there or I won't be the man you think I am at the moment you need me most.'

Sam took a deep breath and tried to control the restlessness in his fingers as they reached out towards Dean's sleeve. 'That's quite an analysis.'

'I told you; I've been studying you. Between your uncle's observations and my own, I've got a fair amount of data,' he murmured.

'So you think you know a great deal about me now, is that it? What about you, Dean? What do you need?'

'You.'

The single word was a monolith between them. Sam knew there was no way around or over the starkness of Dean's answer. He could only retreat or accept it. It was not possible to ignore it.

Intellectually Sam knew he should retreat. But his intense emotional reaction anchored him to the spot. He could not move. In that moment he knew he wanted Dean, too. The one element of caution that he had always practiced in an otherwise playful approach to life seemed to be disintegrating. The strange swirl of emotions he experienced around this man was blowing into a full-scale storm. Sam was no longer certain he could resist the impact.

'Dean,' he heard himself whisper, 'are you sure?'

'Do you have to ask?'

'No.' he looked at Dean wonderingly. 'No, I don't think I do. I've never met anyone like you.'

'I know. I've never met anyone like you, either.' The hand on his neck held Sam very still as Dean brought their lips together.

Sam trembled a little beneath the warm onslaught of Dean's kiss, and there was a soft sound far back in Sam's throat that was lost against Dean's lips. He felt the need in Dean and the leashed hunger and knew that the honesty of the other man's desire was going to be overwhelming.

Slowly his palms lifted to pull against strong shoulders and his mouth opened acceptingly.

'Sam…'

The name was a husky groan uttered deep in Dean's chest and then he was tasting the damp warmth behind Sam's lips. The aggressive intimacy of the kiss seemed to swamp Sam, making him sway against the other man. Dean steadied him, holding him with a kind of fierce gentleness that provided all the strength he needed.

Slowly Dean pulled away until he could look questioningly into Sam's face. His eyes gleamed with a silvery, green brilliance that captivated Sam, and Sam knew in that moment that he was lost. Or found. He couldn't be sure which. Nothing seemed normal or totally rational. But one fact seemed to emerge from the shimmering world of his emotions. If Dean wanted him tonight, he was his.

Dean must have read the intense desire tinged with hesitation behind Sam's lowered lashes because he let out a long sigh and pulled the younger man tighter against his chest.

'It's all right, Sam.' His voice was a dark and passionate stroke along his nerves. 'It's all right, babe. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything. I've waited and wondered so long. I didn't even realize how much I needed you until you finally walked into my life.'

Sam felt the easy power in the other man and tucked his head against Dean's neck. Unconsciously he surrendered the last remnants of his caution and moved blindly as Dean urged him into motion. He didn't care where Dean was leading him or what would happen when they arrived. Never had he been so certain that it was safe to abandon the future for the moment. There was no longer a distinction between the two in his mind. In fact, it seemed to him that there could be no real future without this timeless interlude. Dean needed him and he needed Dean.

Sam was vaguely aware that Dean led him into his own bedroom, not Sam's. Carefully Dean stepped away to pull back the covers. His eyes never left Sam's face. When he'd finished the small task, he stood in front of Sam and put his hands on the younger man's hips, their lips meeting in a heated kiss. There was more than passion in his touch, Sam realized. There was that sense of need and urgency he had responded to last night on the balcony of his motel room. Once more it enthralled Sam and this time there was no barrier to keep his from tumbling into the glittering net.

'Don't think about anything else except us,' Dean whispered against Sam's lips as he slowly slid his hands under the thin t-shirt and pushed it up, lips parting briefly as he pulled the shirt up off Sam's shoulders. 'Please, Sam. Just us.'

'I don't think I could concentrate on anything else even if I wanted to.' Sam said truthfully. Again he shivered. The shirt fell to the floor at his feet.

'Are you afraid of me?'

Sam shook his head. 'No.'

'You're trembling.' Dean seemed incredibly concerned over the fact. His fingertips stroked Sam's bare arms before coming to rest on his shoulders.

'I know, but not because I'm afraid.' he smiled a little as he covered one of Dean's hands with his own. 'You're trembling a bit, too.'

'I'm shaking like a leaf. I want you, Sam. I've been wanting you all evening. No, longer than that. I've been wanting you for months.' The words were raw with honesty.

'Dean, it's probably much too soon-'

'No,' he interrupted roughly. 'It couldn't possibly be too soon. Not for us.'

Dean's hand moved down across his chest and Sam felt the tantalizing heat of the man's palms start to spread through his body. He knew Dean must realize that his body was already responding. Sam could feel the tautness of his nipples as they came tinglingly alive and the slow curl of desire low in his stomach. He caught his breath and began to fumble with the buttons of Dean's shirt.

'Please, Sam,' Dean breathed into his hair. 'Yes, please.'

Dean's need filled Sam with a longing to satisfy and comfort him. Slowly he made his way down the front of Dean's shirt until it parted, exposing the smooth skin of his chest. Sam ran a tongue over one of the nipples presented to him and stifled a moan that was bursting to escape. He was so entranced with the vivid sensuality of the moment that he was hardly even aware of his sleep pants slipping off his hips and down to the floor.

But when Dean's hands slid down his back to stroke the taut skin at his hips, the moan finally escaped and he stumbled a little against him. Sam glanced into Dean's face and read the masculine anticipation there that surely mirrored his own.

'You're so soft, but not,' Dean murmured in tones of wonder. His fingers sank into the strong flesh of Sam's ass and he pulled their bodies tightly flush together eliciting a moan from both men when their hips aligned. The bare skin of Sam's cock felt over sensitized against the rough fabric of Dean's jeans.

'You're not soft at all,' Sam gasped unthinkingly and then buried his flushed face against Dean's neck as the older man growled an amused response.

'No, I don't suppose I am. I feel as though I'm made up of angles and rough edges. You, on the other hand, are composed of strong plains and gentle valleys. Places where a man can lose himself.'

Dean let his fingers trail into the cleft between his buttocks and Sam's nails dug lightly into his skin as Dean followed the path down to run a finger over the sensitive rosette near the juncture of Sam's thighs.

'Dean…'

'Say my name like that again,' he demanded hoarsely as he gently pushed Sam back and settled him on the bed. 'It sounds different when you say it.'

'Does it?' Sam lay watching as Dean yanked off his shirt the rest of the way, stepped out of his shoes and unclasped his jeans. A moment later he stood nude beside the bed, the light from the hall emphasizing his lean, hard body. He was wonderful, Sam thought dazedly. Everything he could ever want in a man. It was strange to be so certain of that, because until now Sam hadn't been quite sure just what he had wanted in a man. He had only known that he hadn't found it.

'God, Dean,' he whispered as Dean pulled open the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms and came down beside him. 'Dean, I…'

'What?' Dean flattened his palm on Sam's stomach and smoothed his skin down to the curling hair that framed his manhood. The heat of Dean's palm wrapping around his cock with a gentle slide scattered any coherent thoughts Sam may have had.

'Never mind.' he arched into Dean, shifting restlessly under the continued onslaught of his touch. 'I can't even think right now.'

'There's nothing to think about.' Dean leaned down to run a line of kisses across Sam's chest. His tongue teased the firm bud of his nipple until Sam cried out and pulled him closer. 'That's all you have to do right now,' Dean told him approvingly, the words heavy with desire. 'Just give yourself to me. Let me open my present. I've been waiting so long for you, Sammy.'

Sam could do nothing but obey, wrapping his arms around Dean's shoulders and digging his fingers into the once rigidly controlled hair. When prowling fingers caressed Sam's twitching entrance and a suddenly lubed finger finally pushed in, he said Dean's name again, this time with an urgency that matched Dean's own.

'Sam, my Sam, mine.' Dean pinned one of Sam's legs with his strong thigh and probed him deeply with a deliciously questing touch. When Sam shuddered and gasped, Dean muttered hot, dark words of encouragement into his ear lips moving along the strong cord of Sam's neck.

Sam lifted himself against Dean's hand, unable to resist the caress. Never had he responded so completely and so readily. His senses seemed inflamed, thoroughly alive and aware in a way that was new to him. Fascinated by the world of sensation that was beginning to spin around him, he stroked Dean's smoothly muscled frame. His palms slipped over the sleek contours of Dean's back, down to the hard planes of his thigh. Then, with rediscovered boldness he moved his fingertips around to find the flat terrain of Dean's stomach. For an instant longer he hesitated, teased. Then his hand went lower.

'Yes,' Dean grated with harsh need when Sam's hand finally closed around him and firmly stroked his male hardness. 'Touch me, Sammy. Let me have all of you. I need you so.'

Sam couldn't find words but Dean seemed to know he was ready. With passionate aggression Dean pushed him into the pillows, quickly rolled on the condom and lowered himself down along the length of Sam slipping his arms under the younger man's knees.

'Put your arms around me, Sammy, and never let go,' he commanded. 'Never let go…'

Sam did as Dean instructed, pulling Dean against him until he felt the blunt hardness of Dean waiting at the gate. The knowledge that Dean was on the verge of entering him fully and completely brought a brief, startling flicker of alarm. For an instant Sam had a vision of the reality that lay beyond tonight. _This man was unique. After tonight nothing would ever be the same._

The fleeting glimpse of the future was gone an instant later as Dean moved heavily against him. All of Sam's senses returned to the moment, lost once more in the pulsating excitement.

'God, _Dean_…' The words were torn from him as he felt the full impact of Dean's body taking possession of him.

'Hold me, Sam.'

Instinctively Sam obeyed as he adjusted to Dean's sensual invasion. Then Dean began to move within him, slow, tantalizing strokes that pushed his senses into tighter and tighter bundles of energy that strove for release.

The end was a revelation to Sam, a new understanding of his body and its responses. He found himself grasping the man above him with an abandon that he would never have believed if he hadn't experienced it firsthand.

'That's it, babe,' Dean rasped as Sam cried out his name once more as he came. 'Let go. Just let go. I'll take you with me all the way.'

Willingly, unable to do anything else, Sam gave himself to Dean completely and gloried in the knowledge that he was returning the gift in full measure. He heard the sound of his name as it was wrenched from Dean and then he was pushing deeply into him one last time. His hard body shuddered for a long moment and then collapsed. Outside the window the night breeze briefly stirred a stand of fir and then all was silent.

It was a long while before Sam became aware of the sprawled weight that still trapped him in the depths of the bedding. He opened his eyes to find Dean lying on top of him, his head on the pillow beside him. He was watching him from behind half-closed lashes.

'Am I too heavy for you?' Dean asked lazily.

'Umm.'

His mouth flickered in brief amusement as he recognized Sam's deliberate imitation of his characteristic response. 'What does 'umm' mean?'

'I don't know. You're the expert. You tell me.'

'It means 'uh-huh.'' Dean sighed regretfully and slowly rolled onto his side pressing a soft kiss to Sam's lips as he gave a hiss of discomfort before quickly removing the used condom and dropping it in the wastebasket next to the bed. Then he gathered Sam close, uncaring of the mess across their stomachs and chests. 'Too bad. You're very comfortable.'

'Am I?'

Dean's head inclined downward once in a short nod. 'Incredibly comfortable. I can't recall when I've been this comfortable. Or this relaxed. Or this content.'

'Neither can I,' Sam said honestly. It was the truth. Tonight there were no pretences or games or caution. His fingertips worked small, idle patterns on Dean's chest, a little surprised to find that Dean was a cuddler. 'Dean, I've never felt quite like this before in my life.'

'You don't sound as if you're sure you like feeling this way.' He touched Sam's hair.

_Nothing will ever be the same_. 'If feels strange.'

'We'll get used to it,' Dean assured him.

'Will we?'

'You're nervous all of a sudden aren't you?'

'No,' Sam denied quickly.

'Sam, don't try to fool me now. You can't do it,' he told him gently.

'Well, maybe I am a little nervous. It was too soon, Dean.'

'It was inevitable, so the timing doesn't really matter.'

'We hardly know each other.'

'You were a gift to me, remember? I was bound to open you as soon as I could.

Sam flushed. 'I thought you were a great believer in patience.'

'Only when it's the best option.'

'You don't think we should have waited awhile longer? Made certain of our feelings?' Sam asked curiously.

'I am certain of my feelings,' Dean told him roughly.

'I don't want you confusing your feelings of responsibility for me with… with your, uh, more personal feelings.'

Dean looked down at him in mocking pity. 'Believe me, I'm not mistaking a sense of responsibility for raw passion. From my point of view the two are quite distinct. You're the one who sounds confused.'

'You're not?'

'Not at all, Sam. If anything, tonight just makes everything even simpler and more straightforward.'

Sam eyed him curiously. 'What does that mean?'

'It means we don't have to have any more arguments about my right to take care of you, for one thing.' He brushed Sam's parted lips and then drew back to study his expression. 'You belong to me now. That gives me all the rights I need.'

Sam bridled slightly. 'I've never met a man so anxious to assume responsibility,' he tried to say lightly. But he was very much afraid his voice cracked a little on the last word.

'I've never been particularly anxious to assume responsibility for anyone else,' Dean told him seriously. 'With you, it's different.'

'And what do you want from me in return?' Sam asked carefully.

'I've already told you, remember?' He pushed a strand of hair back behind Sam's ear. 'I want you to love me. I like the idea of having you love me. I like it very much.'

'You think it would be 'pleasant,'' Sam couldn't resist saying somewhat smartly.

'You said you fell a little in love with the hero in _Phantom_.'

'So?' Sam challenged softly.

'How do you think he would treat a person whose love he wanted?'

The question startled Sam. He frowned. 'I think he would take care of them. They could trust him.'

'I want you to trust me the same way.'

Sam half smiled. 'You're not Phantom.'

'I created him. There must be something of me in him and vice versa.'

Sam studied his intent features. He had asked himself so many questions about the similarities between Dean and his hero the previous night when he'd read the manuscript. 'Yes, I think there might be.'

'Trust me, sweet Sam,' he grated, rolling onto his back and pulling Sam over on top of him. 'Trust me with your love. Like your uncle, I know what has value in life. I'll take good care of you.'

'Aren't you worried about how well I'll take care of you?' Sam parried, aware of the renewing tautness in his body.

'You won't play games with me.'

'What makes you so sure?' Sam demanded, rather irritated with the certainty in his voice.

'Because it would tear me apart if you did,' Dean said simply. 'You wouldn't do that to me, would you, Sam?'

Horrified at the thought, Sam cradled Dean's face between his palms. 'No, Dean. Never that,' he vowed.

Unaware of how deeply he had just committed himself, Sam kissed Dean, translating the verbal promise into a physical one. Dean's hands came up to wrap around Sam's waist and he arched his lower body demandingly into the younger man's.

'Dean?'

'Umm.'

Sam didn't bother to ask him what he meant It was becoming very obvious. Sam thrust his own hips against the other man's, locking their mouths together as they began the spiralling climb to passion.

-o0o-

The first hint of dawn was in the sky the next time Sam came awake. There was a moment of lazy curiosity as he opened his eyes and absorbed his surroundings. Dean's room was a thoroughly masculine affair, with its warm cedar walls and heavy, clean-lined furniture. It was as orderly and controlled-looking as the rest of his house. Sam was finding it interesting until he became aware of the weight of an arm across his stomach. Then he awoke completely.

Memories of the night filtered back in a haze of lingering passion and midnight promises. He turned to look at Dean and was grateful to discover he was still sound asleep. What exactly had he agreed to last night, he wondered with a sudden feeling of panic.

There had been talk of love and responsibility and a promise not to play games. But it seemed to him that most of the dangerous, reckless promises had come from him. The only thing Dean had vowed in return was to take care of him.

It was crazy, Sam chided himself as he cautiously slipped out from under Dean's arm. He hadn't intended to let things go so far. He had never meant to wind up in bed with him, at least not so soon. Sam had barely met the man. This was exactly the sort of behaviour he had instinctively avoided in the world he had just left. What on earth was the matter with him?

Dean stirred restlessly when Sam slid off the bed but he didn't awaken. On silent feet Sam slipped down the hall to his own room and scrambled about for his jeans and a shirt. He badly needed to get out of the house for a while. He needed time to think and re-evaluate the whole situation. His family had often warned him that his periodic bouts of impulsiveness would land him in real trouble someday. Even Uncle Bobby had felt obliged to point out that there were some risks involved in playing games with life.

But last night had been no game. Last night had been for real. Twenty-four-karat real.

Shoving his feet into a pair of boots, Sam yanked a lightweight windbreaker out of his duffel bag and strode down the hall to the living room. He let himself out the front door and stood on the porch, inhaling deeply of the sea-sharpened morning air.

For a moment he hesitated, unable to think clearly enough to decide on a destination. Then he remembered the car he had left parked in the inn parking lot. With a small sigh of relief at having provided himself with a focus for the morning walk, he hurried down the steps and out to the road. He would walk back toward town and pick up his car. Wonderful. It would give his something useful to do while he tried to sort out his future, he thought. Sam patted his jeans pocket to make certain he had the keys.

Behind him he was unaware of the house purring to life with news of the unauthorized exit. Dean came instantly awake as the nearly silent vibration in the headboard jolted him. The alarm-clock radio beside the bed was blinking in a fashion that had nothing to do with its normal function. The message was quiet but clear.

The house was doing its duty. Faithfully it undertook to warn its owner that Sam was gone.

With an oath that was half rage and half pain, Dean threw off the covers and reached for his clothes.

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

The flash of rage and pain gave way to another emotion even as Dean slipped out the front door. Fear began to claw at his insides, and in that moment he could not have said whether it was fear for Sam's safety or fear that the man was leaving him. The two seemed to combine in the bottom of his stomach, forming a knot of tension that increased as he realized Sam was already out of sight. He was at a loss to explain how he could have been so sound asleep that he hadn't even felt Sam leave the bed. Normally he never slept that deeply. Last night had altered something as fundamental as his sleeping patterns and that was unnerving in some ways.

The truth was he hadn't handled last night all that well. He'd practically pushed Sam into bed, Dean berated himself. He should have waited. He'd known it was much too soon. Sam hadn't spent nearly a year with a fantasy nibbling at the edge of his mind the way he had. The younger man couldn't know what it was like to have a fantasy become reality. As far as Sam was concerned he'd only known him a couple of days. Sam must have awakened this morning with a head full of doubts and anger aimed at him.

So he'd taken off without bothering to say good-bye.

Damn it, Dean thought furiously, where the hell could he have gone? There had been no sound of a car so he must be on foot and that meant he couldn't have gone far.

The car. Sam's was still at the inn and it probably represented escape to him. The road would seem the fastest way into town to him, Dean decided. Without hesitating a second longer, he loped down the steps and started up the drive toward the winding road that led into Winslow.

He saw Sam just as he reached the pavement. Sam was walking briskly along, his mop of brown hair catching a sheen of gold from the dawn light. It complemented the faint glint of gold from the sturdy chain on his wrist. Dean remembered the way the heavy bracelet had glittered last night against his skin. Sam had told him that his uncle had given it to him a long time ago. Sam's tall, strong body moved with an ease that seemed to emphasize the broad shoulders and muscular thighs he recalled so vividly that morning. Dean watched him in silence, remembering the sweet passion he had tapped during the night.

The year's wait had been worth it, he acknowledged to himself as he began to pace silently a few yards behind Sam. He had not set himself up for disappointment by allowing Bobby to build an image in his head. In his wildest imaginings, though, he could not have envisioned that Sam would wrap his arms around him with such abandoned demand. Nor could he have dreamed up the clean, masculine scent of the real Sam Campbell. It was unique to Sam and Dean would never forget it. There was no way his fantasies could have created the exact feel of those strong thighs as Sam opened himself to him and there was nothing in fantasy that approached the real-life sensation of sinking himself deep into his tight, gripping warmth.

But it was the words he remembered with such stark clarity that morning. Sam's quiet words of need and the promises he had coaxed from Sam's lips. He had thought the words would hold the younger man even if the lovemaking could not. Sam had told him he would not play games with him and had said he wanted him.

But this morning Sam was running from him.

It would be easy enough to catch him. Sam wasn't even aware of him prowling along behind him on the empty road. His mind seemed focused on his destination, whatever that was. Was he planning to take the car and head back to San Diego? Or would he go to Singer's house and wait there for his uncle?

Not that it mattered, Dean thought grimly. His hand curled and uncurled briefly in a subtle act of tension. He couldn't let Sam leave.

He ought to just catch up with the younger man and explain very succinctly why he couldn't let him off the island. Perhaps Sam would be rational about the matter. Or Dean could simply overtake him, throw him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and haul him back to the house. Sam would probably start fighting but Dean knew some tricks the other man didn't. Then again maybe it would be simplest if he caught Sam and swore never to touch him again as long as Sam did as he was told. And just how would Dean manage to keep a promise like that?

None of the alternatives seemed viable. With a savagely stifled oath, Dean continued to trail Sam along the narrow road. It was ridiculous following him like this, unable to make up his mind about how to handle the younger man. Singer would collapse in laughter if he could see him now. The Dean Winchester he knew had never been prone to indecision or uncertainty.

Several yards ahead Sam walked toward town with an energy that was fuelled by a sense of impending fate. He couldn't explain the feeling of being caught in a trap, but the sensation was strong in his mind. A part of him could not regret last night no matter how hard he tried. But another side of him warned that everything had happened much too quickly. It was something completely alien for him to catapult himself into a situation like that. He shook his head morosely, unable to comprehend his own emotions. Throwing himself into bed with a virtual stranger was one game he had never played.

There was no denying that the unfamiliar blend of emotions he had experienced around Dean had taken him by surprise. In a way, it seemed almost logical, almost inevitable that they had culminated in last night's sensual conclusion. That sense of inevitability, however, was new and disturbing. What irony that Dean had been worried about Sam playing games with him! Nothing had ever seemed less like a game than his own fierce response in Dean's arms. Perhaps if it had seemed more like a game, he would be feeling far more comfortable this morning.

Of course, Sam decided caustically, he could always reassure himself that Dean wasn't exactly a stranger. Hadn't Uncle Bobby apparently chosen him for Sam? Dear outrageous, unpredictable and not infrequently brilliant Uncle Bobby. The man should be dangled over hot coals for creating this mess.

Uncle Bobby.

His uncle's name brought a dose of common sense. This whole mess had been precipitated by Bobby Singer. Where was he and when would he return?

Sam's brows slashed a thoughtful line above his hazel eyes when he finally reached the inn on the outskirts of the small town. His car was still waiting patiently for him in the parking lot. He hoped the inn management wasn't upset about his tardiness in picking up the vehicle. Digging into his pockets for the keys, Sam started forward.

He had his hand on the door handle, absently trying to identify the slip of paper he noticed resting on the front seat when the shock of Dean's voice behind him spun him around.

'You can't just disappear into the mists, you know. Only fantasies can evaporate like that and you're not a fantasy any longer.' The remark was made in a cool, conversational tone that completely belied the shimmering intensity of Dean's gaze. He stood a few steps behind Sam, hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans. The familiar canvas shoes were on his feet and Sam dimly realized that he must have followed him for nearly a mile without making a sound in those shoes.

For an instant the unlikely combination of the easy tone and the fierce demand of the green eyes caused Sam to feel as though he had somehow lost his balance. His hand closed tightly around the door handle behind him as he steadied himself.

'I didn't realize you were behind me,' Sam finally managed, pulling himself together quickly. It was ridiculous to let Dean throw him like this. 'You should have said something.'

'If you'd wanted company, you probably would have mentioned it before you decided to sneak out of the house.'

Sam was taken back by the tightly reined emotion he sensed in Dean's voice. Was it anger or pain? In that moment he couldn't be certain. But he knew he'd prefer that it was anger. Even in his uncertain state of mind this morning he realized that the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Dean Winchester. On the other hand there was such a thing as self-preservation. Sam acknowledged that he felt more than a little on the defensive.

'I didn't sneak out of the house. I simply went for a walk and decided to pick up my car while I was out. You're the one who was sneaking around! You and those sneaky shoes you wear!'

'The last time I let you go off by yourself you nearly disappeared, remember? It's my job to keep you out of trouble until your uncle gets back.'

'Is that what you were doing last night?' Sam challenged, goaded by the accusing tone of his voice. 'Keeping me out of trouble?'

'If we're going to talk about last night, lets do it somewhere else besides this damn parking lot,' Dean growled. He stepped forward and closed his fingers around Sam's upper arm. 'We can get a cup of coffee down at the wharf.'

'Dean,' Sam began firmly, and then decided against an argument. Uneasily he acknowledged that he couldn't tell what Dean was thinking this morning. Nor could he be sure of the state of the other man's emotions. Given the uncertainty in his mood and Sam's own odd feelings, it seemed wisest to avoid an outright confrontation.

Dean led him down the hill from the inn to a pier that thrust out into the beautiful, sheltered cove that was called Eagle Harbor. A marina full of peacefully tethered boats of all shapes and sizes extended out from the pier. On the other side of the cove Sam could see private homes tucked away above the water's edge. Even at this early hour there were several people lounging on the rail, or working on their boats. Fishing rods and tackle were in evidence as folks came and went from the marina to the small wharf buildings. Near the entrance to the short pier a small shop featured coffee and fresh pastries. Dean bought two cups of coffee to go and wordlessly handed one to Sam.

'Thank you,' he murmured with exaggerated politeness.

Dean didn't bother to respond to his comment. Instead he seemed to be deep in thought as though he were struggling to find the right words. The idea that Dean was having trouble made Sam relax a bit. He had the impression that Dean was not accustomed to dealing with this morning's sort of situation. He was glad.

'I wasn't exactly going to disappear into the mists,' he tried tentatively.

'No?' Dean sounded sceptical.

Sam shook his head, sipping at his coffee as they walked out onto the pier. 'No. I only intended to pick up my car and drive it back to the house. If I'd been planning to duck out, I would have taken my duffel bag. Or at the very least, my wallet.'

'Umm.'

Sam slanted Dean a glance. 'What is that supposed to mean?'

'That you've got a point,' he said grudgingly. 'I should have thought of it. I just figured you were so upset about last night that you raced out of the house without bothering to pack or say good-bye.'

Sam focused on the far end of the pier. 'I was upset about last night.' he felt Dean examine his profile but he didn't turn his head to look at him.

'I rushed you into bed,' Dean said finally.

'_We_ rushed into bed,' Sam corrected firmly.

'You're not going to let me take all the blame?'

'Do you want all the blame?'

Dean took another sip of coffee. 'No I'd like to think you had a hand in the final decision. I don't have much interest in playing the role of seducer of unwilling males.'

The response that came to Sam's lips was cut off abruptly as a fisherman who had been unloading his morning's catch walked past with a bucket of water in which two fish swam lethargically. The man turned to wave to a comrade who hailed him from a nearby yacht. Quite suddenly he stumbled over a fishing-tackle box that someone had left on the pier. In the next instant the bucket of fish tilted precariously and one of the silvery, wriggling creatures fell out. It landed right in front of Dean's foot and lay shuddering as it began to die.

'Whoooeee, look at that sucker!' a young boy exclaimed excitedly.

'Must be six pounds if it's an ounce' another man said approvingly. 'Nice catch, Fred.'

The man named Fred grinned proudly as he caught his balance. 'Thanks, Stan. Thought I'd do 'er over a mesquite fire tonight. The wife's having the neighbours in for cards.'

Sam was aware of a familiar pang of regret at the sight of life going out of the fish. He understood about the food chain and that humans were inclined to be carnivores but he preferred his fish neatly filleted and packaged in plastic in a supermarket.

He glanced away from the fish before realizing that Dean had come to a halt and was staring down at the creature that lay dying at his feet. There was no expression on his face. He simply stood silently watching the wriggling, flopping fish. The man who had caught it leaned forward to retrieve it.

Without stopping to think, Sam reached out and grabbed Dean's wrist. Dean glanced up as Sam pulled him firmly around and led him toward the pier entrance. Dean followed his lead, not saying anything as they walked away from the sight of the now-dead fish.

'That sort of thing is hard enough on us supermarket carnivores,' Sam heard himself say casually. 'I imagine it's rather sickening for a vegetarian.'

'Don't worry, I'm not going to be sick out here in public,' he said dryly.

Sam cast him a quick, assessing glance. 'No, you're not, are you?'

'I'm a realist, Sam. I don't eat meat but I understand how the world works,' he said quietly.

'Yes, I suppose you do.' Sam dropped his hand, feeling foolish at having made the vain effort to protect him.

'That doesn't mean I don't appreciate the thought,' Dean told him softly.

'What thought?'

Dean's mouth was edged with quiet amusement and a hint of satisfaction. 'You were trying to shield me from a bit of reality back there. It was very-' he hesitated, hunting for the word '-very compassionate of you.'

'Forget it,' Sam said sturdily. 'Now about our plans for the immediate future…'

'Does this mean we've finished our discussion of the immediate past?' Dean inquired politely.

'There's nothing to talk about. We've both agreed that we were equally to blame for rushing into the situation.' Sam straightened his shoulders. 'We're adults and we should be able to analyze our actions and learn from our mistakes. We are stuck here together until my crazy uncle sees fit to get in touch, so we will have to conduct ourselves in an intelligent manner. Now, I suggest we both put last night behind us instead of trying to rehash it.'

Dean shrugged. 'Suits me.'

'I'm so glad,' Sam muttered with saccharine sweetness.

'You weren't running away this morning?' Dean confirmed quietly.

'No, I was not running away. I just wanted a little time by myself. I felt as if I needed some fresh air.'

Dean nodded and then said calmly. 'I think I can understand that.'

'Kind of you,' Sam drawled.

'Just make damn sure you don't do it again.'

A faint trickle of unease went through him at the cool way Dean spoke. 'I beg your pardon?'

'I said, don't do it again.'

They were back in the inn parking lot, approaching Sam's car. He had the keys in his hand but his mind was on Dean's quiet command. 'Dean, one of the reasons I decided to get out of the corporate world is that I don't take orders well. We'll get along much better if you don't get carried away with your sense of responsibility.'

'I hear you,' Dean said agreeably.

'Good.' Sam reached down to open the car door and slid into the front seat.

'Just don't go running off again without me,' Dean concluded as he gently nudged the younger man over to the passenger seat and settled himself smoothly behind the wheel. Dean held out his hand for the keys.

Sam felt goaded by his words, not noticing or seeming to care about the change in seating. 'The next time I try it I'll be sure to look back over my shoulder to see if I'm being followed.'

Dean lounged into the corner of the seat, never taking his eyes from Sam's stormy gaze. 'I thought we were going to act like adults about this.'

Sam drew a deep breath aware of feeling extremely childish. 'Sorry,' he mumbled. 'You're right, of course. I should never have left the house alone this morning. I wasn't thinking. I was feeling rather, er, emotional. I assume you don't have that problem frequently yourself?'

Dean didn't smile at his sarcasm. 'Wasn't I emotional enough for you last night?'

Sam felt a flush suffuse his face. 'What you appeared to be feeling last night is often referred to by an entirely different name.'

'Passion?'

'Try lust,' he bit out.

'I thought we just got through agreeing that we're adults. If that's the case, then I think it's safe to say both of us know the difference between lust and…' Dean hesitated. 'And other feelings.'

Sam stared at him in silence for a long, troubled moment. He knew the difference, he thought. He just wasn't quite ready to admit that what he had felt last night went by a very dangerous name of its own. It was called love.

Instinctively Sam moved a bit farther over in his seat, seeking to put some distance between himself and Dean. The car seemed filled with the older man, Sam thought. As he slid across the upholstery something crackled beneath his thigh. Belatedly he remembered the slip of paper he had noticed earlier on the car seat. Grateful for the minor distraction, he reached for it.

'You'll give me you word you won't take off alone again?' Dean asked in a neutral tone as he switched on the ignition. He glanced at the paper in Sam's hand as he unfolded it.

'Oh, I'm nothing if not cooperative.'

'I appreciate it. What's that?' He put the car in gear, ignoring Sam's sharp tone.

'I don't know. Just a piece of paper that was lying on the seat. I don't remember…' Sam's voice trailed off in stunned amazement as he read the short message he held.

Dean frowned at him, his foot on the brake. 'I said, what is it, Sam?'

'A problem. A very big problem.' Mutely he held the typed message out to Dean.

Dean stared at Sam's wide eyes for a second longer before switching off the ignition again and reaching out to take the note from his hand.

It wasn't a long note. Sam had it memorized after reading it through twice.

_The one-fifteen ferry to Seattle. Come alone. You'll be safe._

'Well, hell,' Dean said thoughtfully.

-o0o-

Two hours later he was still acting and sounding very thoughtful. It infuriated Sam because he had argued himself hoarse in the meantime. Sam no longer felt in the least thoughtful. He felt quite desperate in fact. For the hundredth time he paced to the far end of the living room and whipped around to glare at Dean, who was lounging quietly on the sofa. Dean had one foot on the coffee table in front of him and was flipping through a car magazine with absent attention.

'Listen to me, damn it!' Sam was sure his voice would give out at any moment. It seemed to him he had been yelling at Dean for hours. 'I haven't got any choice! I have to be on board that ferry at one.'

'You don't have to be anywhere at one.' Dean's responses had been quite and reasonable for two solid hours. They were driving Sam up a wall. How could anyone remain quiet and reasonable and totally inflexible for two solid hours?

'How else are we going to discover what this is all about?'

'People who leave notes in cars are no doubt creative enough to think of alternatives when Plan A doesn't work.' Dean turned the page of his magazine. 'Under the circumstances I think it would be better to make them resort to whatever it is they didn't want to do first. No sense letting them have the easiest option. Gives them an advantage.'

'Dean, I don't want to wait around for Plan B!'

'That's what the guy is probably counting on. Be patient, Sam.'

Sam swung away, striding restlessly back to the other end of the room. Anger and nervous dread alternated relentlessly in his head. He was furious at Dean's refusal to even consider letting him go alone on board the one-fifteen ferry. The nervousness was a growing fear that whatever his uncle was involved in was proving to be more than he would be able to handle. He braced a hand against the window frame and stared out at the stand of trees that guarded the drive.

'Uncle Bobby must be in very big trouble,' he forced himself to say carefully.

'Or someone wants you to think his is.'

'Since when are you the expert on how people such as that man Wolf think and operate?' Sam snapped. 'You've only written one thriller, for heaven's sake. That hardly qualifies you as an authority on the real thing.'

Dean put down the magazine. 'Sam, I'm only doing what your uncle asked me to do.'

'I understand,' he said, trying to be patient. 'But you're taking his instructions much too literally. The situation calls for a little improvising. Something's gone wrong, don't you see?'

'No.'

Sam's fingers closed into a futile fist and he leaned his forehead against the window. He was rigid with exasperation. 'Dean, please listen to me.'

Dean came up behind him, moving soundlessly across the floor to rest his hands on Sam's shoulders. 'Sammy, if I let you go on board that ferry by yourself, we wouldn't be exactly improvising. We'd be following someone else's plan. Surely you spent enough time playing corporate manager to know that following the oppositions' game plan is usually not to your advantage.'

'We've got to find out what he wants!'

'What he wants,' Dean said distinctly, 'is to use you.'

'We don't know that. Maybe he has news. Maybe he wants to give us some information. For God's sake, Dean, whoever left that note might not even be what you call the 'opposition.' He might be a friend of my uncle's trying to get a message to me.'

'Sam, your uncle has a strange sense of humour but I don't see him pulling a stunt like this.'

'Whoever is going to be on that ferry is someone who knows something about Uncle Bobby. I'm going to find out who it is and what he knows.' Sam lifted his head away from the window, aware of Dean's fingers sinking heavily into his shoulders.

'Sam…'

Sam shook his head, tired of arguing, his mind made up. 'No, Dean. I'm through discussing the matter. I'm going to be on the ferry. Be reasonable. What can happen to me on the boat? It will be full of people commuting to Seattle. Whoever is going to meet me will be trapped on there, just as I will be until the ferry docks. He can hardly pull a gun and shoot me, can he? After all, he'd be stuck with the body until he gets to Seattle.'

Dean turned Sam around beneath his hands, his face drawn and grim. 'Sam, this isn't a game like corporate management or checkers. You can't handle it with your casual off-the-wall style. You don't know what you're getting into.'

'I'm already into it,' Sam pointed out stiffly. 'And I can't stand the waiting, Dean.'

Dean searched his face. 'I can force you to stay here.'

'Not unless you tie me up and throw me in a closet,' Sam retorted.

'That's a possibility.'

'Don't be ridiculous!'

Dean dropped his hands to his sides and turned to walk back toward the sofa. 'You can't go alone,' he finally said flatly.

Sam frowned, trying to decide if he'd just won part of the battle. 'But the note said-'

'Damn the note!' Dean glanced at him over his shoulder. 'You can't go alone.'

'Are you saying you're going to come with me?'

'If you're refusing to listen to my advice, then I don't have much choice, do I?' he asked, sounding bleakly resigned.

'Not unless you really do tie me up and throw me in a closet.' Sam tried for a tremulous smile, hoping to lighten the mood now that he appeared to have won the confrontation.

Dean just looked at him. 'The temptation is almost overwhelming.'

Sam let the smile fade abruptly. 'You're not a good loser, Dean.'

'No. I never was.'

He'd won half of the concessions he needed, Sam realized. It shouldn't be tough to get Dean to agree to the rest. The note had specified that he be on the ferry alone.

'I'm glad you've decided to be logical about this, Dean,' Sam began cautiously.

'I generally am logical and reasonable.'

'Then you can understand why I have to go alone today.'

'Forget it, Sam. I'm not that logical and reasonable. Try to get out of this house alone and you'll find me standing in the way. Think you can walk over me?'

At ten minutes to one, Sam was sitting beside Dean as the man drove down the ramp onto the ferry. The crowd was a small one for the afternoon crossing and they easily found seats in the main lounge. Scanning every face that went past him, Sam suddenly realized that his palms had grown damp. He wasn't accustomed to this kind of tension, he decided unhappily. His body felt unnaturally alert, poised for the unknown. There had been no sign of the wolf-faced man in the ferry terminal.

'It's very stressful, isn't it?' Sam muttered to Dean, who was sitting across from him in the booth they had chosen by a window.

'Very,' Dean agreed wryly.

'You can jot down your feelings and put them in your next book,' Sam suggested with false lightness. 'It'll add a note of realism.'

'I'll do that.'

Sam twisted his fingers together cracking his knuckles. 'What if he doesn't show because you're with me?'

'Frankly, I'll be relieved.'

Sam glowered at him. 'Are you going to drag this little incident out every time we quarrel in the future? Throw it at me and use it to illustrate how reckless and irrational I am?'

'I doubt I'll need any additional evidence. You seem to provide enough on a day-to-day basis.' Dean paused, thinking, and then asked interestedly, 'Will we be doing it a lot?'

'Doing what?' Sam grumbled, watching people as they filed past to the snack counter.

'Quarrelling.'

'I hope not,' Sam said feelingly. 'It's wearing. I feel as though I've been through the wringer today and the main event hasn't even taken place.'

'Umm.'

The ferry moved out of its slip, beginning its crossing to Seattle. In the distance a giant freighter loaded with containers of cargo headed toward the bustling port of Seattle. Sea gulls hoping for titbits kept pace with the ferry, wheeling and gliding alongside.

'You know, Dean, there's something to be said for living in this area,' Sam remarked wistfully. 'It's beautiful country.'

'Umm.'

Sam was about to demand an explanation of his monosyllabic response when he caught sight of the man who was walking into the lounge from the outside deck. He went very still as he recognized the grimly handsome aquiline features. The man looked at him down the length of the passenger lounge.

'Dean,' Sam whispered tightly, 'it's him. The man who tried to grab me in the market.'

With a casual movement that Sam couldn't help but admire, Dean turned calmly to stare at the hawk-faced man. He examined him in silence for a moment and then swung his gaze back to Sam. 'Looks like he's going to go ahead with Plan A, even though some of the details have been changed.'

'You mean the fact that you're with me?' Sam watched the stranger make his decision and walk firmly down the aisle of window seats. 'If you want to know the truth, Dean, I've changed my mind. I'm glad you're here. Very glad.'

'It's always nice to be appreciated,' Dean muttered just as the other man came to a halt beside Sam.

'Mr. Campbell?' His voice was quiet and unruffled.

Sam swallowed, trying to keep his face unemotional. 'Yes.'

'I'm Nick Sa'mael. I'd like to talk to you.'

'We assumed that from the rather melodramatic note you left in his car,' Dean said before Sam could respond. 'Why don't you sit down and tell us what this is all about.'

Nick Sa'mael coolly examined Dean and then appeared to dismiss him. He returned his attention to Sam. 'This concerns your uncle, Mr. Campbell. It's a very private matter.'

Sam stared up into the darkest eyes he had ever seen. The man was towering over him where he sat, and if Dean hadn't been sitting quietly across from him, he would possibly have felt threatened. As it was he instinctively took his cue from Dean and gestured at the seat beside him. 'Whatever you have to say can be said in front of my friend. He is as concerned about my uncle as I am. Please sit down, Mr. Sa'mael.'

'For your own sake, Mr. Campbell, I think the fewer people involved in this, the better.'

'I'm already involved,' Dean growled softly. 'Sit down, Sa'mael, or leave us alone.'

Sam held his breath as the tall man flicked another assessing glance at Dean, who returned the look expressionlessly. Then the aquiline-faced Sa'mael shrugged and sat down beside Sam. When he spoke he ignored Dean.

''This is rather a long story, Mr. Campbell.'

'Perhaps you could summarize?' Dean suggested easily. 'We've got short attention spans.'

Sam saw the flare of impatience in Sa'mael's eyes. 'Please, Mr. Sa'mael. Tell us what's going on.'

Sa'mael rubbed the side of his jaw with an air of contemplation. Then he nodded slowly. 'To put it simply, Bobby Singer is in trouble.'

Sam caught his breath. 'Do you know where my uncle is at the moment?'

'We think he's in the Middle East.'

'The Middle East!' Sam glanced in astonishment at Dean, who kept his gaze on Nick Sa'mael. 'What on earth would he be doing there?'

Sa'mael sighed. 'I told you this was a long story. The truth is it goes all the way back to the days leading up to the start of the Gulf war.'

Sam went still. 'Go on.'

'You uncle was working for the government in those days, Mr. Campbell. He was assigned to the embassy in Kuwait City but he spent a lot of time in the countryside. He knew his way around the area as very few Americans did. He had friends in the oddest places.' Sa'mael looked a little pained. 'If you remember the news reports, you'll recall that things were getting very chaotic before the invasion. Panicked crowds from the city trying to overrun the embassy walls, others trying to flee the city. Things were in turmoil. A lot of men such as your uncle had to play it by ear when some of the normal chains of command broke down.'

With a disturbing sense of déjà vu, Sam listened to the tale. He never once looked at Dean to see how he was reacting. Something told him he should respond to Nick Sa'mael as though he were hearing the story for the first time. Not as if he had read the nucleus of it in a manuscript called _Phantom_.

'There was a lot of valuable material that had to be retrieved before the invasion of the country,' Sa'mael was saying quietly. 'Some of it was taken out by helicopter but some of it was sent out through less obvious routes. Your uncle was in charge of handling a particularly valuable shipment. He was to take it across the border. To be blunt, Singer reached his rendezvous point in Saudi Arabia but the shipment he was assigned to safeguard never made it.'

'I see.' Sam's throat felt constricted.

Sa'mael looked at him with a cold, even glance. 'We think he's decided to go back and bring out the shipment he left behind, Mr. Campbell.'

'Who's 'we'?' Dean inquired politely.

Sa'mael frowned. 'The people for whom Singer used to work.'

'The government?' Sam pressed.

Sa'mael inhaled slowly. 'Yes and no.'

'That's a little vague, isn't it?' Sam asked sharply.

Sa'mael's handsome features twisted ruefully. 'I should make it clear, Mr. Campbell, that while I have ties to the same agency for which your uncle worked, this is something of a personal matter for me. I am not representing the government in this.'

'You want that shipment for yourself?' Dean drawled.

Sa'mael shook his head tiredly. 'There's no chance of getting that shipment out of the Middle East. Singer will only get himself killed trying. I'd like to prevent that. Your uncle and I go back a long way together, Mr. Campbell. I owe him. He was my friend.'

'Who would kill him if he went back?' Sam whispered.

'The story of that lost shipment of, uh, material, is not exactly a secret, Mr. Campbell. There have been rumours and speculation for years. A couple of very dangerous people are aware of its existence and of the fact that only your uncle knows where it is. They've dropped out of sight since Bobby Singer did. I have reason to believe they've gone after him. I want to get to Singer before those others do.'

'And just where do I fit into all this?' Sam demanded aggressively.

'Your uncle is a very independent man. Especially now when he no longer has any ties to his former employers. He probably won't listen to me but I think he might listen to you. I want you to come with me, Mr. Campbell.'

'Come with you where?' Sam asked dazedly.

Sa'mael slid a speculative glance at Dean and then refocused intently on Sam. 'I'd rather not say our destination. But it will be in the Middle East. There are ways of getting a message to your uncle once we're in contact with certain local people.'

'I don't have a passport,' Sam heard himself say.

'That detail can be handled. Leave it to me.'

Dean stepped in, his voice remote and restrained. 'He needs time to think it over, Sa'mael.'

'How much time?' Sa'mael kept his gaze on Sam. 'We haven't got a lot to spare.'

'Forty-eight hours,' Dean answered for him.

Sam glanced at Dean and once again instinct made him follow his lead. 'Forty-eight hours, Mr. Sa'mael. Please. I have to think about this.'

Nick Sa'mael got to his feet. The Seattle waterfront was rapidly filling the horizon. He touched Sam lightly on the shoulder. 'Forty-eight hours, Mr. Campbell. For Singer's sake, please don't take any longer.' He turned and walked away.

Sam sat staring at Dean as the ferry bumped gently into the dock. He ran his damp palm over his shoulder where Nick Sa'mael had touched him. 'Does it feel as if it's gotten colder in here?' he asked vaguely.


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Just a reminder, none of this is mine. No, really, this is truly not mine. I stole it, slashed it, and posted it. I wish it were mine, and I kind of wish it were a true story but then there would be mean people out in the world and that's just wrong.

* * *

><p>Sam concentrated on another bite of the chocolate-chip ice cream he was eating as he strolled along the Seattle waterfront. Beside him Dean neatly licked around the edge of the pecan flavoured cone he had chosen. The ferry wouldn't be leaving for another half hour. It had been Dean who had suggested they take a walk on the picturesque wharf before they caught the boat. Neither had said much until after they bought the ice cream at one of the many fast food stalls that dotted the wharf.<p>

Sam knew the reason for his silence was probably the same as Dean's. They were both lost in contemplation of the scene on the ferry with the man who called himself Nick Sa'mael. Finally Sam polished off the last of his cone and flipped the napkin into a trash container outside the entrance to the aquarium.

'You know what I think?' he announced, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

'What?' Dean seemed fascinated with his disappearing ice cream.

'I think that legend Uncle Bobby told you about the gold is not pure fiction.'

'Brilliant deduction.'

Sam slanted him a disgusted glance. 'Either it's for real or else-'

'Or else other people such as Nick Sa'mael believe it's for real, which amounts to the same thing,' Dean concluded grimly.

'Know what else I think?' Sam went on determinedly.

'Let me guess. Your uncle's idea of the perfect wedding gift is a cache of gold buried somewhere in the middle east.' Dean swore softly.

Sam sighed. 'He always did like gold. Said it was the only real hedge against an uncertain world. I can imagine him thinking gold would be the perfect present for me. Whenever he's giving me a gift, it's usually been made out of gold.' he extended his wrist briefly, displaying the heavy gold chain. 'And he did say something about going off to protect our, uh, wedding gift.'

'Does chronic idiocy run in your family?'

'My uncle is not an idiot!'

'I know,' Dean agreed derisively. 'He just has a bizarre sense of humour. You'd think I'd realize that by now.'

Aware of Dean's irritation, Sam felt obliged to turn the conversation away from a defence of Bobby Singer's odd actions. There would be time enough to defend his uncle later. With any luck he would return to take up his own defence. Heaven knew it had always been a little tricky making excuses for him. Sam decided to go on the offensive.

'Are you quite certain that Uncle Bobby didn't say anything about that legend being for real when he told you the story?' he demanded.

'He told me it was only a tale. There are others like it that came out of the war, you know. I turned up a lot of them while doing research for _Phantom_. It certainly isn't unique.'

'Really?' Momentarily distracted, Sam stared up at him, his eyes widening. 'Tell me some of them.'

Dean lifted one shoulder in a heedless shrug and tossed away the end of his cone. A trolley car designed to carry tourists from one end of the waterfront to the other clanged past along tracks that paralleled the street. Dean didn't speak until the sound of the whistle had faded. 'Well, there's a story about the CIA agent assigned to destroy vital documents in the hours before the embassy was overrun.'

'And?' Sam prompted.

'According to the legend he kept some of the more interesting ones, such as a list of agents and their covers operating in the Middle East. Then he tried to hold an auction.'

'He was going to sell the list to the highest bidder?'

'That was the plan, I gather.'

'Did he?' Sam demanded interestedly. 'Hold the auction, I mean?'

'Sam, it's just a legend. How should I know what happened?'

'Oh.' Disappointed, Sam pushed for more information. 'What other tales did you hear?'

'Leftover legends from that particular war?' Dean's heavy brows came together in thought. 'I think there was a story or two about businessmen who were supposedly hired by the U.S. government to supervise construction projects in Kuwait City and the surrounding area. Apparently they used their visits to Kuwait to establish drug connections that continued long after that war ended, making them very rich men. Then there are the tales of gold deals made in the north. The list of such stories is endless, Sam. Wars breed them. Just think of all the stories and legends that came out of World War II and Vietnam. People still write novels based on them.'

'I see what you mean. So when Uncle Bobby told you the story of the gold, you assumed it was just that; a story.'

'Umm.' Dean appeared lost in thought. 'It still might be just that.'

'I don't know,' Sam mused. 'I can see Uncle Bobby doing something like this – hiding a cache of gold in a bizarre location and then telling me it's supposed to be my wedding gift.'

'_Our_ wedding gift,' Dean corrected. 'don't forget he gave me the story first.'

Sam ignored that. 'What I can't see is him stealing the gold in the first place.'

'We don't know that he did. At this point all we've got is Sa'mael's version of things.'

Sam shivered. 'Creepy guy, isn't he?'

Dean looked at Sam with a wry expression. 'That's one way of putting it.'

Sam came to a halt and leaned over the railing to stare out across Elliott Bay. Several long piers on either side of him, many full of import shops and souvenir stands, poked finger like out into the water. Around him, children ate popcorn and other assorted goodies while their parents browsed around the shops and enjoyed the sun. Another large ship was making its way into port flanked by tugs. Its deck was stacked high with containerized cargo. The ship carried a strange name and a foreign flag. A sailing yacht skirted the tip of a pier, seeking a place to tie up so that its passengers could come ashore for a meal at one of the many restaurants featuring fish. The sight of all the seagoing traffic made Sam think of places he had never been to and which, under normal circumstances, he would probably never go to, places that had bloody histories stretching back a thousand years.

'Have you ever been to the Middle East, Dean?'

There was silence for a moment and then Dean moved to lounge against the rail beside him, his eyes following Sam's gaze. 'Why do you ask?'

'Just curious. I was wondering what it's like.'

'You're not going to find out in the company of Nick Sa'mael,' Dean told him roughly.

Sam's head came around, his face mirroring his serious mood. 'I may not have a choice, Dean.'

Dean's fingers tightened on the railing. 'You think I'm going to let you get on a plane with Sa'mael forty-eight hours from now?'

Sam moved restlessly, not quite certain how to handle the harshness in him. 'That reminds me,' he said, not answering Dean's question. 'What made you think of asking for a couple of days' leeway?'

'I didn't ask.'

'That's right.' Sam nodded, remembering. 'You just told him that we were going to take that much time, didn't you? That was very quick thinking, Dean.'

'I try,' he murmured sardonically.

Sam frowned. 'Maybe writing thrillers helps you think fast on your feet in situations such as this.'

'I was sitting down at the time.'

Sam peered suspiciously at Dean's profile, wondering if he'd actually attempted a small joke. 'Well, I'm just glad you were there. I'm not sure that he wouldn't have been able to pressure me into going with him if I'd been alone.'

'You're not accustomed to dealing with people like him. They can be very convincing, especially when they're using the fate of someone you love as bait.'

'You really think Sa'mael is lying?'

'There's a hell of a lot we don't know about this mess, Sam.'

Sam was silent for another moment or two as he turned things over in his mind. 'He must be who he says he is, Dean.'

'Who? Sa'mael? What makes you think he's telling the truth?'

'Well, there was that business about being able to get me a passport on two days notice, for one thing. I mean, no one but a real government agent could accomplish that.'

'Money and the right connections can buy just about anything in this world.'

'Oh, yeah?' Sam was beginning to resent Dean's calm, cynical superiority. 'And just where would someone like Sa'mael go to buy a fake passport?'

There was a slight pause and then Dean said quietly, 'Just about anywhere. Los Angeles, New York or Mexico City.'

'Mexico City!'

'Umm. It's huge, Sam. One of the largest metropolitan areas in the world. Here in the western hemisphere it's one of the places frequented by a certain kind of 'in crowd.' A man can shop for anything, including a fake passport. He can also get lost there and reappear on the other side of the globe without bothering to answer a lot of inconvenient questions.'

Sam stared at him. 'More lore you've picked up from writing thrillers?'

Dean watched the sailing yacht make another pass along the piers. 'Legends and tales, Sammy. A writer of thrillers collects them.'

'Which is probably why Uncle Bobby couldn't resist feeding you that story of the gold.'

'Probably, Bobby knows a sucker when he sees one.'

'Well, we'll deal with him later,' Sam vowed. 'In the meantime, we have to deal with Sa'mael.'

'Sam, we can't trust that guy one quarter of an inch,' Dean said evenly. 'You said yourself he's a, uh, creep.'

'But he knows where Uncle Bobby is,' he protested.

'He _says_ he knows where he is. But if we go on the assumption that we can't trust Sa'mael, we have to assume we can't trust anything he tells us, right?'

'It's very confusing, isn't it?' Sam groaned 'And in the meantime Uncle Bobby could be in real trouble.'

'I think we're the ones in real trouble, thanks to good old Uncle Bobby,' Dean said, pushing himself away from the rail. 'Come on, Sammy. The ferry will be leaving soon. We'd better get going.'

'Forty-eight hours isn't a very long time, Dean.'

'I know.'

'What if my uncle doesn't get in touch before the deadline?'

'I didn't set the deadline because I hoped Bobby would have sense enough to contact us. I set it to give myself some time.'

Sam glanced at him in astonishment. 'Time to do what?'

Dean wasn't looking at him. He appeared to be concentrating on the brightly dressed crowds of casual strollers who were ambling along the waterfront. 'Sam, I'm going to leave you alone for a while tomorrow.' He spoke slowly, as though measuring each word.

'Why?' Sam demanded, utterly startled.

Dean hesitated. 'There's something I want to check out. A man I want to see.'

'Are you going to try contacting that government agency my uncle used to work for?' Sam demanded.

'No. I'm not sure we could trust any answers we got from that source,' he told him honestly. 'Look who we're dealing with from that department now.'

Sam wrinkled his nose. 'Sa'mael. I see what you mean. So who are you going to contact?'

'Somebody who may know for certain whether or not Bobby really is in the Middle East.'

'But if we don't know it for certain, who would?'

'Sam…' Dean reached out and threaded his fingers through the other man's. His tone was low and urgent. 'Sam, would you please not ask any more questions? Your uncle and I have talked a great deal during the past year. He's told me things I don't think he's told anyone else.'

'But, Dean…'

'Please, Sam. Just trust me, okay?'

Sam wanted to shout that no, it was not okay. He wanted to tell Dean it had nothing to do with trust, that he simply deserved some explanations. Sam was infuriated and worried and he felt like lashing out but he realized with an instinct that went to the bone that it wouldn't do any good. His uncle had apparently shared some confidence with Dean that neither of them had seen fit to share with him. Dean would not tell him anything else at this point. He was certain of it.

'If you've known someone we could contact all along, why haven't you already done it?' he asked in a carefully controlled voice.

'Because your uncle wouldn't want me doing it unless I thought we had a full-fledged crisis on our hands. Up until now I've been going by what he said in his voice message.'

'You've been assuming he could handle his 'old business'.'

'Yes.'

Sam pulled his hand free from Dean, putting a small distance between them. 'All right. There's not much I can say if you won't tell me what's going on. Go ahead and contact whoever it is you think can give us some information.'

'You're angry, aren't you?'

'I'm feeling a little annoyed at the moment, yes,' Sam bit out. 'I don't like being kept in the dark.'

'I'm sorry, Sam,' Dean began but Sam cut him off.

'Forget it. Just don't ever again accuse me of playing games. You're turning out to be a real pro at the art.'

That stilled Dean for a moment. He said nothing until they were back at the ferry terminal and walking on board the boat. Then Dean told Sam the rest of his decision. 'It will take me most of tomorrow to do what I have to do. You'll be alone at the house.'

Sam sprawled down on a seat, his arms folded across his chest in cool disgust. 'Why? Or is that part of the game?'

Dean sat down beside Sam, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He studied his linked fingers. 'I'm not playing games, Sam. I have to leave you alone because I wouldn't dare risk using the phone to contact your uncle's friend, even if I thought I could get through to him.'

Sam watched Dean's profile through suddenly narrowed eyes. 'You think the phone's tapped?'

'After meeting Sa'mael, I'd say we have to assume the worst, wouldn't you?'

'Probably. What do you mean, you aren't sure you could reach this man on the phone even if you did dare use it?'

'From what your uncle says, this guy isn't the sort who trust people over the phone. I'll have to see him in person.'

'Where is he?'

'Not far,' Dean answered evasively. 'I can catch a plane and reach him in a few hours. I'll leave as soon as I can book a flight in the morning. I should be home by late tomorrow afternoon.'

'And in the meantime I just sit patiently waiting, is that it?' Sam muttered.

'Sam, you'll be safe in the house,' Dean told him quietly.

'I'd rather go with you.'

He shook his head, staring down at his clasped hands.

'Can't you at least tell me why I can't come with you?'

'Sam, please-'

Sam interrupted whatever it was Dean intended to say with an exclamation of impatience. 'Forget I asked.'

They were politely remote with each other for the rest of the day. They walked up the street from the ferry docks and into Winslow so that Dean could make his plane reservations at a pay phone. Sam was too proud even to attempt to overhear his conversation with the airline clerk. Later he berated himself for not having tried to eavesdrop. At least he could have found out where he was going. When Dean rejoined him to walk back to the cottage, he asked only if everything was settled.

'I can't get a flight out until nearly seven tomorrow morning.'

'I see.'

'That means I'll have to take the first morning ferry to Seattle.'

'Yes.'

His mouth thinned as he listened to Sam's aloof responses. 'Sam, there's one thing I want to make very clear.'

'That would be a change.'

Dean ignored that. 'You're not to leave the house for any reason after I've gone.'

'I understand.' Sam didn't look at him, his gaze fixed stonily ahead.

'Good. You're safe in the house after I've set the alarms. No one can get in unless he decides to use explosives.'

'What a pleasant thought.'

'Don't worry about it,' Dean said dryly. 'Just give me your word of honour you won't leave the house until I get back.'

'Or until Uncle Bobby gets back,' Sam amended smoothly.

Dean nodded. 'Promise?'

Sam wondered briefly what would happen if he didn't promise and decided not to push the matter. 'All right. Word of honour.'

'I swear I'll return within a few hours, Sam, I'll be back on the five-fifty-five ferry.'

'I believe you.'

'Then can't you stop giving me the ice treatment for a while?' he asked gently.

'Speaking of cold,' Sam drawled slowly.

Dean gave him a sharp glance as they walked down the drive and opened the door of the house. 'Is that your imagination I hear cranking up again?'

'I think Sa'mael might really be the one they called Wolf,' Sam told him in a low voice. 'It would make sense, wouldn't it? He was once very close to my uncle, so he might know about the gold.'

'There's no sense speculating about it, Sam.'

'Why not? Maybe if we speculate long enough and hard enough, we'll come up with some answers.'

'Not on that subject.' Dean stood in the hall for a moment, listening. Then he ushered Sam inside.

'Just think, Dean. That creep is probably the renegade. Uncle Bobby might have gone to the Middle East thinking he could hunt him down and remove him before he got the gold.'

'Sam, all we've got at the moment are a lot of questions. Not answers.'

'But why would Sa'mael be hanging around here if he was after Uncle Bobby's gold?'

'How the hell should I know?' Dean stalked into the kitchen and pulled a beer from the refrigerator.

Sam trailed after him. 'Dean, I think we're missing something. Something crucial.'

'Like your uncle?' he suggested bluntly.

'I mean a clue!' Sam gritted. 'Listen to me, Dean. Let's assume Uncle Bobby really does have some connection with that gold and that he had some fantastic notion of giving it to us as a… a wedding gift.'

Dean popped the top from his beer and leaned against the counter taking a long drink from the dark bottle. He eyed Sam deliberately then tilted to top of the bottle towards him. 'All right, for the sake of argument, let's assume it. Now what?'

Sam tried to construct his thoughts into a logical sequence. Frowning intently, he began to pace the kitchen. 'Okay, he knows where that gold is but he hasn't made any attempt to date to retrieve it. At least no attempt that we know of. In his voice mail he didn't say he was going to _fetch_ our wedding gift. He only said he was going to _protect _it.'

'True.' Dean watched him closely.

'Now if he suddenly decided he had to protect it for us, it must be because he got word that someone was out to steal it. We have to assume that very few people would even know for certain that the tale was anything more than a legend. The most logical person my uncle might have confided in besides you or me is he ex-protégé.'

'We're back to Wolfie?'

'This is not a joke!' Sam hissed.

Dean exhaled heavily and turned around to pull out another beer from the refrigerator. 'I know. Go on.'

Sam glared at Dean's broad shoulders. 'Not only is Wolf or Sa'mael or whoever he is the one man who might know about that gold and might even know its approximate location but we have the evidence that Uncle Bobby was definitely thinking about him before he left for parts unknown.'

'You mean that sketch on my manuscript. Sam, that's pretty damn slim evidence.'

Sam shook his head. 'I don't think so. I think it means that the man called Wolf was on Uncle Bobby's mind recently and that could easily be because he had reason to fear the guy was going to make a move on the gold. Something or someone we don't even know might have tipped him off. Who knows how many mysterious contacts my uncle has left around the world? You yourself are going to try to find one of them tomorrow!' He flung his hands outward in a sweeping gesture. 'Don't you see? Uncle Bobby is trying to protect our so-called wedding gift from the one man who might be able to steal it.'

'Then what's Sa'mael doing hanging around the Northwest?' Dean asked logically. 'Why isn't he in the Middle East?'

'Because he doesn't know where exactly in the Middle East the gold is hidden. No one knows except Uncle Bobby. Sa'mael is probably looking for my uncle. Maybe he thinks he can use me somehow.' Sam chewed on his lower lip while he considered that. 'My uncle has dropped out of sight. He told the neighbour he'd gone hunting. Guess who the quarry is?'

'Wolfman?' Dean asked mockingly.

'Go ahead and laugh if you want, but I think I'm getting a handle on this.'

'I'm not laughing at you, Sam.' Dean handed him the extra beer. 'You may be right for all I know. But I think the first thing to establish is whether or not your uncle is where Sa'mael says he is. And I only know one way to do that.'

'Find that man whom Uncle Bobby mentioned. I know. I'm not going to argue with you any more on that score, Dean. I can see your mind is made up,' he said wearily.

It was over a rather strained dinner a couple of hours later that Dean brought up the subject again. Sam was poking idly at the roasted red pepper salad he had made when, after a long silence, Dean spoke.

'There's one other thing,' he began thoughtfully.

Sam glanced up. 'What's that?'

'Bobby told me the story of the gold for a reason. He knows it forms the kernel of the plot in _Phantom_.'

'That's right.' Sam set down his fork.

'If you're right about the wedding gift being that cache of gold, then what he was really doing was-'

'Giving you the first clues about what your wedding gift actually was and where it was located,' Sam finished on a note of excitement. 'I can see him doing something like that.'

'So can I. Damn it, I may pound the man into the ground if and when he finally does show up,' Dean growled. 'He knows I don't like games.'

The sparse conversation at dinner faded into a very long silence by mid-evening. The strain in the atmosphere grew stronger as bedtime approached. Dean watched the clock move slowly toward ten and knew from the remote expression in Sam's eyes that he would be sleeping alone tonight.

He'd been expecting to find himself in a cold bed, of course, ever since he'd awakened that morning and realized that for Sam everything was happening much too quickly. Sam had a right to some time to adjust to the idea of having him as a lover. After all, Sam didn't have all those months of fleshing out a fantasy that he'd had. Dean was too much of a stranger to him yet, too much of an unknown quantity.

Dean inclined his head politely when Sam excused himself and disappeared down the hall to his own room shortly after ten. He sat in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, and repeated the admonitions he'd been giving himself all evening.

Not enough time.

Too much of a stranger.

Too many other problems at the moment. Big problems.

And Sam was mad as hell because he wouldn't take him with him tomorrow.

All in all, a formidable list, he thought wryly. But the logic and the rationalizations didn't seem to be making much of an impact on the pulsing desire that was going to keep him awake tonight.

He thought about what he had to do in the morning and told himself that he needed sleep, not a night spent brooding in an armchair. He'd already had enough of those during the past year.

No doubt about it. He needed sleep; he could do without the brooding and he had no right at all to go to Sam's room. All three things were perfectly clear and logical in his head. But, as he'd learned the hard way, clear logic didn't always chase away the shadows of emotions. Dean wondered briefly at that. Emotions were odd things. There had been a time when others had sworn he didn't have any. Dean knew better.

Slowly he got to his feet and began a silent tour of the house. Sam would be safe here. The house could keep out intruders. And Dean would be back for him as soon as possible. Quietly he checked and double-checked the hidden alarms and the exotic barriers Singer had helped him install. Bobby, with his skilful hands and his crafty, convoluted mind. _Where are you tonight, my friend?_

His soft-soled shoes making no sound on the hardwood floor, Dean walked from one checkpoint to another, reassuring himself that the gift from Bobby Singer would be safe. Keeping Sam secure was the most important priority in his world, Dean realized. It was a strange feeling to accept such total responsibility for another human being. Almost primitive in a way. He considered just how completely Sam had infiltrated his thoughts and then he headed down the hall toward his bedroom.

He would not pause in front of Sam's door. He would not listen for a moment to see if he was restless in his bed. He would not stand in the hall and let himself think about what he would do if he opened Sam's door. He was a disciplined man and he could deal with his body's hungers.

It was the hunger in his mind he wasn't sure about, Dean admitted as he approached Sam's closed door. How did you discipline the need for another person? Especially when you'd spent a lifetime not really needing anyone?

His steps slowed in spite of all the logic and discipline, and Dean was vaguely aware of his hand curling tightly against his thigh. Sam would be asleep by now.

Sam lay very still in the wide bed and watched the shifting light under his door. He couldn't hear Dean but he knew he was standing there. He sensed the tension in his own body and realized he was waiting for the door to open. He'd been lying there waiting for it since the moment he'd turned out the light and climbed into bed.

Because, Sam thought grimly, there was no way he could allow Dean to leave in the morning without letting him know that he had a right to be in this bed tonight.

The knowledge was sure and complete in his mind. He couldn't account for the certainty, but it was there.

Sam threw back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed. He was reaching for the blanket that had slipped to the floor when the door of his room opened soundlessly. Dean stood framed in the doorway, his face in deep shadow. Sam's fingers froze around the soft fabric of the blanket as he looked up at Dean.

'You're not asleep.' Dean's voice was low and gritty; the words a statement, not a question.

'Neither are you.' Sam let the blanket drop from his hand. The wave of longing that swept through him was startling in its intensity. He was afraid that if he tried to stand up he would lose his balance and need to sit right back down.

'You should have been asleep,' Dean told him very seriously.

'Should I?'

'It would have made things… easier.' He didn't move in the doorway.

'Easier for whom?'

'For me.'

Sam drew a deep breath. 'But not for me,' he whispered, and held out his hand in an ancient gesture of invitation.

'Sam?' Dean's voice was raw with the question.

'Come to bed, Dean. Please.'

Dean hesitated for a timeless moment. Then he moved forward in a dark, silent glide that swept Sam up and bore him back onto the bed.

'Dean…'

'Hush, Sam. There's no way on earth I could let you change your mind now.' He was sprawling heavily on top of Sam, his hands pinning him passionately against the pillows as he sought the younger man's mouth with his own.

Sam wanted to tell him that he had no intention of changing his mind, that he wanted him, needed him, that he had never felt like this about a man before in his life. But the words seemed to be locked in his throat as Dean began to make love to him.

Dean pushed the canvas shoes off his feet without even bothering to sit up on the bed. Sam heard them thud softly to the floor. He felt Dean fumble with the fastening of his jeans and then the buttons of his shirt. And all the while he kept Sam achingly close to him, deliciously trapped under his strength.

'I told myself I shouldn't stop at your door,' he grated as he kicked his clothing to the floor.

Sam's head moved from one side to the other on the pillow. 'No, this is where you belong.' he circled Dean's torso with his arms, pulling him close.

'Sam, my sweet Sam.' He tugged at his t-shirt, forcing Sam to raise his arms so he could pull it all the way off. Flattening the palms of his hands across Sam's chest, he grazed his nipples with a rasping, tantalizing touch that brought them to taut nubs.

Sam uttered a heated sigh into his mouth and dared him with the tip of his tongue. Dean responded instantly, thrusting deeply behind Sam's teeth. Sam traced the contours of Dean's sleek back with his fingertips until he groaned heavily.

Lifting himself for an instant, Dean pulled Sam's sleep pants down, off over his hips and let the garment fall to the floor beside his jeans. Then he came back down beside him and Sam felt the demanding hardness of him against his thigh. He could feel the almost violently taut need in Dean and his own body reacted to it with fierce awareness.

Slowly, with deliberately provocative strokes, Dean caressed him. His fingers playing an enticing game across Sam's lower abdomen and down along the inside of his leg until Sam thought he would go out of his mind with desire. When Dean finally moved his hand upward, Sam cried out against his mouth.

Then he was struggling passionately to return the heady thrill and the throbbing anticipation. Sam slid his hand down Dean's back to the slope of his thigh, feeling the crisp curling hair. Then he explored the man above him more and more intimately until he cupped the heavy evidence of his desire.

'Sam, you're driving me wild,' Dean groaned out.

'Yes, please,' he whispered breathlessly.

'Sam, are you sure?'

'I've never been more certain of anything in my life.' Sam used his blunt nails with excruciating delicacy, and Dean muttered something soft and savage against his throat. Reaching out to the nightstand where unconsciously Sam had set condoms and lube before he climbed into bed to wait for his lover, Dean quickly ripped open a condom with his teeth and turned his attention back to the younger man.

'Dean?'

'I couldn't stop now if all the forces in hell got in the way,' he said, and then he was parting Sam's legs with his own, sliding toward his warmth until he was only a pulse beat away from possessing him completely.

Sam whispered his name again and again, lifting himself with undisguised longing.

'That's it, sweetheart. Give yourself to me. Just give yourself to me. I need you so.'

Sam gasped as he entered him, the shock of his passionate invasion ricocheting through his whole system. Then he tightened his arms and legs around him, wrapping him as close as possible.

Lost in the embrace, Dean knew only that he wanted Sam to cling to him forever. There was nothing else besides this shattering moment and Dean seized it with all of his strength. There would be time enough tomorrow to wonder at the intensity of his need, time enough to worry that he was only reacting to the drama of the situation, time enough to reconsider the wisdom of letting himself be swept up in Sam's tight, encompassing heat. There was always time enough to regret the past. But he was living for the moment tonight, he told himself, and for this hour he would revel in it. He would allow himself to believe it was all for real.

When Dean felt the telltale tightening of Sam's body, it precipitated an echo in his own. For an instant he forced himself to raise his head so that he could watch Sam's face during the fiery release. He had a few seconds to wonder at the compelling possessiveness he felt for the man in his arms and then he was trapped in the vortex of their combined desire. It swept them both to a violent, throbbing climax, left them hanging for a sweet moment and then slowly, slowly ebbed.

The moment in which he had been living was already becoming the past, Dean thought distantly as he lay beside Sam. Soon the morning would arrive and with it another slice of the past. Perhaps there was some sense of balance in nature. Perhaps one piece of the past could offset another. He would have the memory of Sam's warmth tonight to carry with him as a talisman against the chill of tomorrow.

Sam stirred in his arms. 'Dean?'

'I'm here, Sam.'

'Good,' he murmured drowsily. 'See that you're here tomorrow night, too.'

_When tomorrow night comes will you really want me here, my sweet Sam,_ he wondered silently.

-o0o-

He left at dawn and Sam was at the door to watch him go. Sam had awakened the instant he did, the younger man's senses aware of the older's every movement. Dean had lain quietly for a long moment looking down into Sam's face and then he'd brushed his lips lightly against his. Words flooded his head but he couldn't find a way to say them aloud. There wasn't time now to say the things that should be said. Perhaps it was better this way.

Pushing aside the covers, he'd climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Without a word Sam had fixed coffee for him while he dressed and then he'd pressed in closely to kiss him good-bye.

'Be careful, Dean. Please be careful.'

'Hey, I'm only going to talk to a friend of your uncle's,' he protested gently. He was afraid of the intensity he saw in Sam's gaze. He liked it better when Sam was laughing at him with his eyes or watching him with passion. Dean realized just how much he had come to value the impulsive warmth that was so much a part of Sam. Life would be very cold without it. 'I'll be home by sundown.'

'Yes.' Sam didn't argue.

'You won't leave the house,' he said again, making it an order.

Sam shook his head. 'Not unless you or Uncle Bobby tell me to leave the house,' he answered obediently.

'Sam…' He hesitated on the porch, turning back to him one last time.

'Just hurry, Dean. I'll be here when you return.'

He looked at him, nodded once and left without glancing back again.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Just three more chapters after this one! ...man, I hate waiting.

* * *

><p>The house seemed incredibly lonely after Dean left. Sam wandered around from room to room, wondering if doing a little dreaded housecleaning might help him deal with the strange mood in which he found himself. The thought brought to mind the question of who actually did Dean's housecleaning. Something told him Dean probably took care of the chores himself. Certainly no one had been in during the few days Sam had known him to sweep the hardwood floors or dust. But everything seemed orderly and reasonably clean. Keeping his environment neat and precise was undoubtedly a part of Dean's nature. It fit with what Sam knew of Dean's preference for being in control of his world.<p>

Sam wondered if Dean had ever felt out of control. When had the need to be in command of everything around him come into existence? Perhaps he had been born that way. Or perhaps something in his past had made him so cautious and controlled. Surely the average person didn't install the kind of sophisticated electronic gadgetry that protected this house unless some event had instilled a raging desire for security. Dean was definitely not the type of man to let his imagination make him paranoid. He must have his reasons for his self-control and the controls he had imposed on his surroundings. The only time Sam sensed that Dean slipped his own leash was when he made love to him.

The images engraved on his mind from the previous night rose to warm him now. He remembered the passion and intensity of the man who had held him. And he recalled his own ungoverned responses.

He wandered into the library and drew a finger along the top shelf of the book case. There was a smudge on his hand afterward but nothing really terrible. Just a normal amount of dust. The kind Sam himself collected on the top shelf of his bookcase. The kind people living alone tended to collect. He wondered how long Dean had lived alone. Most of his life, apparently.

Finding the thought depressing, he turned away from the bookcase and walked over to Dean's desk. Having been through it once, he felt there was no point amusing himself by browsing through it again. He sat down in the swivel chair and remembered the way Dean had caught him here a few nights ago. He hadn't heard Dean's approach, he recalled. You hardly ever heard the man. He moved very quietly in those well-worn sneakers.

A shaft of morning light caught the crystal and gold apple, making the trapped bubbles come alive for a moment. Sam leaned forward and studied the shimmering effect. He liked the notion of Dean having sat here at his desk for months, the apple in front of him, while he worked. How many times had he glanced up idly and found himself studying the apple? Perhaps as many times as Sam had.

But Sam hadn't known there was a duplicate crystal apple in existence, he reminded himself. While Dean had known all along that there was another apple and that someday he would encounter its owner. He wondered what Dean had expected him to be like. What picture had his uncle sketched of him? It was suddenly very important to Sam that Dean had found his gift satisfactory. Sam wanted to be sure he would return to collect it this evening.

'Dean,' he muttered aloud, 'remember what I said about taking care of yourself. I don't think I should have let you go alone.' As if he'd had a choice.

Uneasily Sam stood up and walked slowly back out of the study. He'd make himself another cup of coffee and see if he couldn't find something to read. It was going to be a very long day.

He was pouring the coffee when he realized that what he wanted to read was _Phantom_. Perhaps if he went through it a second time, this time knowing his uncle had deliberately been planting information, he might pick up something useful. Digging the manuscript out of his duffel bag, he carried it back to Dean's study and sat down to read it with the cup of coffee at his elbow.

He wrinkled his nose at the sketch of the wolf on the first page and then deliberately set himself to go through the manuscript with an alert eye. There must be something in it. Didn't Bobby believe in hiding things in plain view? He certainly had doodled a great deal on the pages. But then, that was standard operating procedure for Bobby Singer whenever he found himself with a pencil in hand and a sheet of paper nearby. The man should have been an artist instead of a secret agent.

Just as had happened the first time through _Phantom_, Sam once again found himself caught up not in the intricacies of the plot but in the hero's pain and savage determination to survive. The feelings of compassion he had experienced the first time he read it returned anew. He longed to comfort the hero even as he told himself that only the hero could endure his own survival both emotionally and physically. In the end Sam knew he would again be left wanting to know for certain that there really was going to be a happy ending. And once more the question of how much of Dean existed in the guise of _Phantom_ returned to haunt him. This was a first novel. Somewhere he had read that they tended to be the most autobiographical.

Sam was into chapter three when the phone on the desk rang shrilly. The unexpected sound startled him. In the time he had been staying at Dean's home, the thing had never rung. He hesitated a few seconds before reaching out to pick up the receiver. Then the thought that it might be Dean calling for some reason made him fumble with the instrument.

'Hello?'

'Sam.'

'Uncle Bobby!' Sam sat stunned as he heard his uncle's distinctive growl of a voice. 'Uncle Bobby, where are you? I've been absolutely frantic. This whole thing is-'

'Sam, don't talk, just listen to me,' Bobby Singer said quickly. 'Come back to my place as soon as you can.'

'But Uncle Bobby-'

'As soon as you can, Sam. I can't explain. I'll be waiting.'

Bobby hung the phone up in his ear before Sam could get in another question.

His first instinct, Sam realized with chagrin, was to panic. He had no way to reach Dean to tell him what was happening, no way to find out if his uncle needed immediate help such as an ambulance, no way even to begin to figure out what might be wrong. All he could do was obey Bobby Singer's summons as swiftly as possible. He could only reassure himself with Dean's words about his uncle's competence. _He can take care of himself_.

Whatever else was happening, at least Sam knew he wasn't in the Middle East! If only he could get in touch with Dean to call him off that wild-goose chase but Sam knew that Dean would have his phone turned off for most of his journey. Frantically Sam tried to think. It took him a moment to break through the paralysis engendered by his uncle's phone call. Then he was on his feet and running toward the bedroom. His jacket was where he had left it, slung on a chair. He grabbed it and scrabbled around the pockets for his car keys.

Sam was almost to the front door when he remembered the elaborate warning devices built into Dean's house. Forcing himself to slow down and concentrate, he went into Dean's bedroom and programmed the alarms as Dean had taught him so that he could leave without causing a disturbance. Almost as an afterthought he pushed the reset button so that the house would be able to detect intruders. Dean wouldn't thank him for leaving the exotic alarm system completely turned off. He was afraid to set it to keep out intruders because Dean hadn't told him how to bypass the alarms if he were to leave and then try to re-enter. There was always the chance that he might be coming back here this evening with his uncle. This way the house would recognize that it had been entered, but he would be able to get back inside if he wished. When he was finished, the alarms were set just as they had been the night he'd walked so easily into Dean's study to search it. He'd better leave a note, too, just in case Dean returned before he got back.

He dashed back down the hall to the study and found a pen and a piece of paper. Hastily he jotted down the facts about the phone call and Bobby's summons. Then he glanced around for a means of anchoring the slip of paper. The crystal apple caught his eye. He picked it up and a shaft of morning light broke into a rainbow as it passed through the apple and touched the frozen bubbles inside. Sam found himself staring into the depth of the crystal for a split second. The apple had been the start of this whole mess, he realized. And it had provided the first link between himself and Dean.

Shaking off the momentary sense of distraction, he plunked the crystal apple down on top of his note. Time enough later to figure out whether the apple was more significant than it seemed.

Finished with the task, he raced out the door and jumped down the steps to where his car was parked in the drive. He was furious with his own nervous tension and his anger just served to make him more nervous. It seemed an incredible chore to get the key into the ignition. The wait at the ferry dock was interminable. The Interstate was jammed through the heart of Seattle and over the bridge to Mercer Island. Everything seemed to be conspiring to keep him from making good time out of town.

When at last he was free of the city's congestion, he found it difficult to keep within shouting distance of the speed limit. Every instinct was to hurry. Uncle Bobby's words had sounded extremely urgent. But there had been an oddly flat quality to his voice, Sam thought as he drove. He'd never heard him sound quite that way.

On the other hand, he had never been around him when he was 'working'. For Sam he had always been the laughing, witty man who had seemed to understand him even when the rest of the family hadn't . There had been an affinity between him and his uncle since he was a small boy. His parents tolerated it good-naturedly most of the time. But there had been occasions when he had been warned that it wasn't right to play games with life. The black sheep of the family might be a lot of fun but he didn't set a responsible example for a young person.

With every passing mile Sam wondered what had gone wrong with Bobby Singer's latest game.

It wasn't until nearly two hours later when he was turning off onto the narrow road that led toward the cottage that Sam remembered to wonder why his uncle hadn't mentioned Dean. If there was anything really wrong, would Bobby have asked him to come alone?

Impatiently he slowed to take the twists and turns of the old road. Quite suddenly he was furious with both his uncle and Dean. These men and their little macho schemes. And they had the nerve to say he played games! When this was all over, Sam decided as he braked for a sharp curve, he would give them both a piece of his mind. More than that. He'd tear a wide strip off each of them.

The car that blocked the road on the far side of the curve came as a distinct shock. It was sitting across both lanes, making it utterly impossible to get past. Sam, who had his foot on the accelerator again as he came out of the curve, hurriedly slammed on the brakes.

'Damn it to hell!' It was the last straw, Sam told himself as he came to a halt. Well, at least he could walk to the cottage from here. Angrily, his mood fuelled by a firestorm of mounting concern, he pulled over to the side of the road, pushed open the door and climbed out. There was no one in the other car as far as he could tell. Who on earth would be stupid enough to leave a vehicle in the middle of the road? Probably some drunk driver who hadn't made it home from a local tavern.

Leaning down, Sam reached inside his own car to yank the keys from the ignition. It couldn't be more than a mile now to his uncle's house. He straightened up, stepped back to slam the car door, spun around and found himself staring straight into Nick Sa'mael's hawk like face.

'Congratulations, Mr Campbell. You made excellent time.' He motioned almost negligently with the compact, snub-nosed gun he held in his right hand. 'I just put the car across the road fifteen minutes ago. Thought you'd take a little longer to get here.'

'I shouldn't have hurried, apparently,' Sam managed in a tight voice. He couldn't take his eyes off the gun. The casually efficient way Sa'mael held it seemed as frightening as anything else that was happening. A man who held a gun that coolly must have had plenty of practice. 'Who are you, Mr. Sa'mael?'

'Let's just say I'm an old acquaintance of your uncle's.' He nodded toward his vehicle as he spoke. 'Now I think we'd better get these cars off the road. This isn't a well-travelled area but I wouldn't want some stranger coming along and starting to ask silly questions.'

'Such as why you're holding a gun on someone?' Sam didn't move. He wasn't certain he could.

Sa'mael's smile was an odd travesty of humour. 'Take it as a compliment, Mr. Campbell. I learned long ago not to take any chances. Even with an unemployed corporate suit. Get in the car. You'll drive.'

When he stepped toward him, Sam discovered that he could, indeed, move. He edged back toward the nondescript compact that was lodged across the road. 'Drive where?'

'To your uncle's cabin, of course. That's as good a place to wait for him as any.'

'I thought you said he was in the middle east!'

'I lied. I do that quite well. You should start getting used to it. A lot of people in your life lie to you. Now move, Mr. Campbell. And please, for both our sakes, don't try anything too tricky, okay?'

There was no opportunity to try anything clever even if he had been able to think of something truly brilliant, Sam discovered. At the point of the gun he slid into the driver's seat. His fingers shook slightly as he took the wheel. His shirt was turning dark under his arms from a nervous sweat. He was not in the habit of being held at gunpoint. Sa'mael got in beside him, his eyes never leaving Sam for an instant.

The drive to Bobby Singer's cabin was a short one. Sam fantasized briefly about stomping down on the accelerator and trying some wild maneuver that might dislodge the weapon from Sa'mael's hand but common sense warned him it wouldn't work. There was no way he could get the car up to a fast rate of speed before Sa'mael could put a bullet in him. There would be plenty of time for Nick Sa'mael to kill him and grab the wheel.

The cottage appeared exactly as he and Dean had left it. When Sam obediently switched off the ignition, Sa'mael ordered him out of the car.

'Now we'll walk back and get the other one.' He stood aside and waited for Sam to start back down the road ahead of him.

'Why the stunt with the car across the road? Why didn't you simply wait for me in the cabin?'

'I was afraid you might be suspicious about entering the house when you noticed the strange car in the drive. And there wasn't any convenient place to hide it and still have it readily available.' He indicated the cleared area that extended from the drive to the front of the house. 'I also didn't know if you and your uncle might have some particular signal.'

'You're giving me a lot more credit for caution and observation than I deserve,' Sam told him dryly. 'I doubt that I would have thought twice about the car. I would have assumed it was my uncle's. And we don't have any special greeting signal! Good grief, I'm his nephew, not a secret agent.'

'Oh, I'm aware of who you are, Sam Campbell. Very much aware. I'm counting on your identity to lure your uncle out into the open, you see.'

Sam turned to glance back at him over his shoulder. The gun was still pointed unwaveringly at his back. 'But that was my uncle's voice on the phone. I don't understand. Where is he?'

Sa'mael arched an eyebrow. 'It was your uncle's voice, all right. Right off the voice mails on his answering machine.'

'His answering machine! But he didn't say those things on the machine,' Sam gasped, startled.

'Sure he did,' Sa'mael told his with a soft chuckle. 'He just didn't say them in quite that order.'

'You mixed his words from the voice mails into different sentences?'

'And digitally recorded them. It takes a little work and the right equipment, but it can be done. I had both his recorded message to callers and the message to your friend Dean with which to work. Plenty of material from which to get a few simple sentences.'

Sam stared unseeingly at his car as they rounded the bend. 'You appear to be very professional at this sort of thing, Mr. Sa'mael,' he murmured dully.

'Very,' he assured Sam. 'It would be best if you didn't forget it.'

Sam drove the second car back to the cottage under the same circumstances as he had driven the first. When he finally parked it beside Sa'mael's compact the man motioned him into the house.

"What now?' Sam asked quietly as he stepped inside.

'Now we wait. Make some coffee if you like. It's probably going to take a while.' Sa'mael appeared unconcerned.

'But what exactly are we going to wait for?'

'Your uncle should be contacting us in the near future.'

'But why would he do that? How would he even know where I am or that I'm with you?' The shock of the situation was affecting his mind, Sam thought vaguely. He couldn't seem to think properly. Perhaps he ought to take Sa'mael's advice and make some coffee. At least it would give him something to do. He was very much afraid that if he sat down or stood still he would begin to shake.

'Your uncle is looking for me. It's only a matter of time before he figures out I'm waiting patiently right here on his home stomping grounds. And when he does, he'll discover I have you with me.'

Sam turned on the tap in the kitchen sink, aware of Sa'mael watching him from the doorway. 'You're going to use me?'

'I'm going to trade you to your uncle for the information I want,' Sa'mael confirmed. 'I see it all as a business deal.'

'And what information is it that you want, Mr. Sa'mael?' he demanded softly.

'Don't you think you should start calling me Nick?'

'I don't see us ever getting together on a social basis,' Sam gritted out as he set the pot into place in the coffee machine.

'But we are together, Sam,' Nick drawled smoothly. 'Perhaps for some time. You made it very easy, really. I was a little worried about how to get rid of the boyfriend. I wasn't sure until yesterday where he fit into the scene. I had a couple of plans I thought would work but he simplified matters considerably when he obligingly left on the morning plane to Mexico City. His leaving for Mexico also confirmed his part in all this.'

'Mexico City!'

'I got the clerk at the airline counter to verify that he bought a one-way ticket to Mexico What's the matter, Sam? Didn't he tell you where he was going?'

'Yes, but I… I just don't see how you could find out that sort of information.' Sam was surprised that he could get the lie fairly glibly past his lips. Mexico City! It didn't make any sense. You didn't pop down to Mexico City for the day and return by early evening. And just yesterday Dean had been telling him tales of how a man could disappear into Mexico City and reappear on the other side of the world.

'You can get all sorts of information out of people if you flash the right badges at them,' Sa'mael informed him. 'Poor little boy. You still don't realize what he's done, do you? You've been had, kid. In more ways than one.'

'He's a writer,' Sam explained, struggling for something logical to say. 'He does a lot of research and he's had this trip planned for some time. My showing up got in the way of his schedule, I'm afraid. He's setting the next book in Mexico.' Did that sound reasonable? 'I didn't have the time to go with him.'

'Is that a fact?' Sa'mael said musingly. 'So he just left you up here all by yourself to worry about your uncle? After asking for forty-eight hours to think over your problem?'

'I… yes.' It was probably better not to weave any more strands into the story. He wouldn't be able to keep it straight in his own head.

'Not terribly gallant of him, was it?'

Sam said nothing. He focused on the pot filling with coffee.

'You're a fool, Sam,' Sa'mael finally said calmly. 'You've been dumped. As long as Winchester figured you were the easiest way to get at the gold, he was willing to play lover. But yesterday when I let him know that others were getting close to the prize, he panicked and decided you were no longer the quickest or safest means to an end. I know better. I know that you still are the best means to this particular end. I'm a patient man, Sam.'

Sam cast him a quick, uneasy glance. Sa'mael smiled again. 'Want me to tell you the real reason he's gone south?'

'What's your explanation, Mr. Sa'mael?'

'Oh, it's simple enough. Mexico City is a wide-open town. It has a certain reputation in the industry. Among other things it's a jumping-off point for people who want to head for such places as Kuwait without letting the U.S. government know where they're going. You can buy anything in Mexico City, including alterations on your passport. Your boyfriend has skipped out on you. He's probably heading for the Middle East.'

'I thought,' Sam said weakly, 'that the stories about Mexico City were just the product of espionage fiction. Legends and tales.'

'Fact, I'm afraid. Your lover has skipped.' Sa'mael seemed amused.

Sam lowered his gaze. 'Why would he do that?'

'Because he's decided to risk going after the gold on his own instead of waiting for your uncle to return. As I said, he got nervous yesterday when he realized others were closing in on it. He's obviously a friend of your uncle's and Singer made the mistake of trusting him, both with his nephew and with the information about the gold. Singer never used to make mistakes like that, but he's getting old. He's trusted the wrong man with the details of what was probably intended to be your inheritance. The race is on, Sam, but I'm the one with the inside track. I've got you. I'm not worried that Winchester tried to buy himself forty-eight hours for a head start. It won't do him any good because he's obviously an amateur. A greedy amateur, but an amateur nonetheless.'

'Why do you say he's an amateur?'

'Because a professional would have realized that you're the most useful key around. And that I'm the biggest threat. A professional would have made a try for me before leaving town, if for no other reason than to find out just how much I know. The middle east is a big and dangerous place to go hunting without specific directions and a few contacts. Winchester will probably just succeed in getting himself killed trying for your uncle's gold. And it does nothing to change my plans. One way or another I wound up with you, and ever since you appeared on the scene so conveniently, that's been my goal. I'm a highly adaptable man. Before you came along I was using a different approach. I'd been through this cabin with a fine-tooth comb. I was just realizing how useless that method was going to be when you showed up out of the blue. Couldn't figure out who you were at first, but after you'd left the first time I remembered seeing the phone-answering machine. I played it back to see if I could pick up any information about Singer's unexpected guest, and sure enough, all the news I needed was on that tape. That's how I found out you're Singer's nephew.'

'You want that gold, don't you?' Sam reached for a cup and poured coffee with exaggerated care. He was afraid that if he wasn't extremely cautious he would spill the hot liquid all over the counter. 'The gold you said my uncle left behind in the middle east.'

'Yes, Sam. I want the gold. Pour me a cup, too. Just set it on the counter. I'll get it. Wouldn't want you trying to throw it in my face with a grand, heroic gesture.'

'So you're going to use me to force my uncle to tell you exactly where he hid the stuff?' Sam persisted, standing back so that Sa'mael could pick up his coffee.

'Precisely.'

'You said Uncle Bobby thinks you're in Hawaii,' he began with a frown as he tried frantically to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

'I made certain he got the information to that effect. Rumours are very effective in our crowd, even among the, uh, golden-agers. I wanted him sidetracked for a while so that I could try getting the data I needed the easy way.'

'You searched this place,' Sam murmured, remembering the chaos he and Dean had discovered.

'Unfortunately, as I said, my search didn't turn up anything so convenient as a map, a set of coordinates or even a computer that would have made my task a straightforward one. I really thought I'd have a chance of finding what I wanted because I knew your uncle rather well at one time, Sam. I know his theories on hiding important data, for example. He always got a kick out of concealing things right in front of someone's nose. Singer had a sense of humour, you can say that for the man. When I didn't turn up anything, I realized matters were going to get complicated. I made the search look like the work of punks and decided to keep watch on the cabin for a while. It paid off. You happened along and greatly simplified my life.'

Sam leaned back against the counter, his hands braced against the cool tiles. 'Why would my uncle go tearing off to Hawaii just because he thought you were there, Mr. Sa'mael?'

'He thinks that after all these years I've decided to go after the gold. He's got a couple of other reasons for following my trail, too. He and a few others, I believe, have some private suspicions about me.' Sa'mael sipped tentatively at his coffee. 'Not bad,' he declared. 'I enjoy good coffee.'

Sam took a deep breath before plunging in with the next question. 'My uncle has other reasons for hunting you down?'

''Hunting' sounds a bit melodramatic, don't you think? Let's just say he couldn't resist the hint that I might have surfaced and that he might be able to find me.'

Sam met his gaze unflinchingly. 'Do you by any chance go under the code name of… of Wolf?'

Sa'mael went still, the coffee halfway to his mouth. Slowly he lowered the cup, his dark eyes narrowing speculatively. 'Now what would you know about the man called Wolf?'

Sam's fingers tightened around the counter's edge. He was beginning to wish he hadn't brought up the subject. 'Not much. My uncle mentioned him once. That's all.'

'And you've been assuming I might be… Wolf?'

Sam didn't like the cold amusement that was suddenly in his eyes. 'The thought occurred to me.'

'Fascinating.'

'Well?' he challenged bravely.

Sa'mael's mouth drew back in a humourless smile. 'Your uncle always could tell a good story.'

'Is that all Wolf is? A Bobby Singer tale?' Sam questioned. It was getting difficult to tell tales from reality, he realized.

Sa'mael chuckled, shaking his head. 'No. As usual with your uncle, there's a germ of truth in the story. There really was a man called Wolf. I never met him. Few people did and survived to tell about it. His cover was very deep and he protected it. They said he had a thing about maintaining his cover.'

A man who liked to be in total control of his surroundings. Sam shivered. 'What do you mean his cover _was_ Deep?'

'He's a legend, Sam. Just like the gold that never made it out of Kuwait. But he was real like the gold, too. Lethally real, from what I understand. In my business legends can be real.' His mouth twisted ironically.

'But you're not him?'

'Hell, no.' Sa'mael grimaced. 'Give me some credit. The guy cracked up completely, according to the old gossip. Went bonkers on his last mission. He never returned.'

Sam was very still. 'What do you mean, he cracked up?'

'Just what I said. The story goes that he broke like a fine-tuned violin string. Came apart. Went crazy. Cracked. Couldn't handle what he was paid to handle. Got himself killed on his last assignment. Why the interest? Because you've been assuming I'm him?'

'The thought had crossed my mind,' he admitted quietly.

'I'm not especially flattered. The guy may once have been good, the best there was, in fact, but I sure as hell don't intend to lose my nerve the way he did.'

'What are you going to do with the gold if you get it?' Sam pressed, desperate to keep the conversation moving. He had no particular wish to chat the afternoon away with Nick Sa'mael, but he somehow felt safer when the man was talking.

'I'm going to retire, Sam. Somewhere far, far away. Some nice island, perhaps where a lot of gold will buy a lot of silence and a lot of what I want out of life. I've been living under a great deal of tension for the past couple of years. And you know what they say about the dangers of too much tension. I've done well financially, but as the magazines say, stress takes its toll.'

'Like it did on the man called Wolf?' Sam flung back.

Sa'mael shook his head. 'That was an entirely different sort of situation. According to the story, he simple broke. With me, dropping out is more of a reasonable, strictly pragmatic business decision. You see, I've been working very hard lately. And I'm a little tired. Holding down two jobs will do that to a man.'

'Two jobs?' Sam questioned, confused.

'Never mind.' Sa'mael shifted his position in the doorway. 'I really don't feel like discussing it any further at the moment. Let's go into the living room and sit down. We might have a long wait ahead of us. But have no fear. Sooner or later your uncle will figure out that he's been sent on a wild-goose chase. When he does he'll rush back here. We'll be waiting for him. I bought some food. Enough to last us a couple of days, if necessary. But I doubt we'll have to put up with each other's company for that long. Your uncle is a smart man.'

_What did you talk about when you found yourself whiling away the hours with a man who kept a gun in his hand when he conversed with you?_

Sam was still asking himself that sometime later as he sat almost immobile on the sofa in front of the cold fireplace. He hadn't moved in so long that he was afraid his foot might have grown numb. When he did move it cautiously, Sa'mael glanced at his sharply.

'Going somewhere, Sam?'

'The bathroom, unless you have any objections,' he muttered, rising slowly to his feet. There was a tingling sensation in his left foot but it wasn't completely numb.

Sa'mael eyed him thoughtfully. 'None. There's no way out of that room. I've checked. Try to resist the temptation to forage for a pair of scissors or a razor blade. You'd only wind up cutting yourself.'

Sam didn't respond. He turned away and went down the hall to the bathroom. When the door closed behind him, he sagged against the sink and stared at his drawn face in the mirror.

He had to do something. He couldn't bear this endless waiting. What was it Dean had said about the value of patience? In this case it brought nothing but anxiety. It didn't seem to bother Sa'mael particularly, he reflected. The man was very professional about the whole thing. Or at least he seemed professional. Hard to judge, given his own limited experience in this kind of business. Sam winced.

Sa'mael had the ability to wait but would he bother with that route if he thought there might be a shortcut to his goal, Sam asked himself as he splashed his face with cold water. He'd tried a shortcut once before when he created the diversion that had sent Uncle Bobby off to Hawaii. If Sam could make him think there was an alternative to this interminable waiting, perhaps he would go for it. He dried his flushed face and thought of Dean's promise to return by early evening.

There was no way Dean could make it back tonight if he'd actually gone to Mexico and Sa'mael seemed convinced he'd gone.

But Dean had promised Sam he'd be back. And the house was set on its alarm status. If Sam were inside the house with Sa'mael, Dean would know as soon as he returned that there was trouble. His small signalling device would warn him there had been an unauthorized intrusion when he came within a couple of blocks of his home.

That scenario would only work if Dean really was planning to return tonight. If he was even now en route to Mexico City, Sam was in very bad trouble. Heaven only knew where his uncle was.

Sam wrenched himself away from the mirror. It was an incredible disaster, and if he didn't act, it was going to get worse. He didn't have any illusions about the man in the next room. Sa'mael was quite capable of casually torturing him tonight or raping him and then killing him later after he had what he wanted from Uncle Bobby.

Sam's only real chance was to bank on the fact that Dean had told him the truth about returning this evening.

_Legends and reality_. How could a person be sure of the difference, Sam asked himself.

A few minutes later Sam opened the bathroom door and went down the hall to the living room. He saw the fleeting spark of interest in Sa'mael's eyes as he resumed his seat on the couch. No, the last thing he wanted to risk was spending the night here with him.

'In another couple of hours we'll have to discuss the sleeping arrangements, Sam,' Sa'mael mused, tossing a magazine into the basket beside the chair. 'I think that could be interesting.'

'Really? Do you sleep with your gun in your hand, Mr. Sa'mael?'

The hawk faced man chuckled. 'I think I can dispense with the gun once I've tied you up for the night. You'd look interesting spread-eagled on the bed.'

Sam shuddered and nerved himself for the next bit. 'I'm not interested in sharing a bed with you.'

'Perhaps I will find it a challenge to see if I can create a little interest,' he suggested coolly.

'I doubt it. I'm going to be married soon.'

'Are you?' he murmured blandly. 'The boyfriend who just skipped town? You'll have to catch him first, won't you?'

Sam chose his next words carefully. 'That gold you're after is supposed to be my wedding gift from my uncle.'

Sa'mael's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. 'Just how much do you know about your uncle's little social security cache?'

Sam tried for a mild shrug, his arms spread nonchalantly across the back of the couch where he sat. 'About as much as you do. You know my uncle. He's fond of dropping little, uh, hints.'

'Singer never does anything without a reason. And in spite of that easygoing façade, I worked with him long enough to know he's a shrewd and careful man. If he was dropping hints to you about the gold, then he must have truly believed it was safe for you to know about it. No reason he shouldn't think it was safe after all these years, I suppose.'

'In addition to being shrewd and careful, my uncle also likes to plan for the future,' Sam added deliberately. 'He wanted Dean and me to know enough about the gold to be able to find it someday in the event something happened to him.'

Sa'mael leaned forward on his chair, the gun cradled loosely in his fist. 'That's very interesting, Sam. Very interesting. It puts a whole new light on the situation. Up until now I've assumed that no one except Singer knew the truth about that gold. It's a fact that your uncle tries not to leave much to chance, though. Tell me more, little boy. Tell me what made Winchester think he's got a shot at the gold. I've been wondering who he plans to contact after Mexico City.'

Sam caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth, watching Sa'mael the way a small mouse probably watched a hovering eagle. _Dean, where are you?_ 'Mr. Sa'mael, I'll make a deal with you.'

Sa'mael smiled and Sam could almost hear the way he must be laughing inwardly at his naiveté. The knowledge made him grit his teeth.

'I'm listening, little boy.'

'If I… if I show you where I think the information is hidden, will you take it and go away?'

'I'd have no reason to hang around any longer if I had a map showing the location of the gold,' Sa'mael murmured.

Sam wanted to cringe, but he managed to project a hopeful expression. 'It's at Dean's.'

'Your boyfriend's house?'

'He's the man I'm going to marry. Uncle Bobby gave us each a copy of the map. If what you say is true about Dean being in Mexico, then he must have taken his copy with him. But I have my own. Or at least I have information that will lead me to the gold. I'm not sure that it's exactly a map.'

'I can't quite decide whether or not to believe you, little boy,' Sa'mael finally said.

Sam clenched his fingers tightly together. 'I can show you.'

'But first we have to drive all the way back to that damn island? I don't like islands, Sam. A man can get trapped on islands. So few ways off, you see.'

'I thought you were going to retire to an island,' Sam shot back.

'Ah, but that will be different. Much different. There I will have my own means of transportation.'

Sam let out his breath. 'Then you're not interested in getting your hands on the information my uncle gave to me?'

Sa'mael was quiet for a long while and then he suddenly seemed to come to a decision. 'It would make things much simpler if it turned out that you're telling the truth, although I have a few doubts. Still, your boyfriend is several thousand miles away by now following some lead. I'd give a lot to know exactly what kind of lead he thinks he has. Who knows when your uncle will show up.' He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, his eyes hooded and speculative. 'I suppose there's no harm in checking out your story. We could be into the city and over to that damn island within a couple of hours.'

'Yes.' Sam could hardly breathe as he waited for the final decision. Was greed finally going to swamp this man's patience?

Nick Sa'mael nodded once. 'All right, Sam. We'll go. But I warn you that if you've lied to me, I will make things most unpleasant for both you and your uncle. And probably your boyfriend, too.'

'I'm not lying,' Sam said with great conviction. 'I know where my copy of the information is hidden. I had finally realized it just before you made that fake phone call this morning.'

'I do believe you're telling the truth,' Sa'mael mused as he studied the certainty in Sam's expression. 'Fascinating. Remind me to thank you later.'

_Sure_, thought Sam as he got to his feet. _I'll remind you. Just before you pull that trigger_.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Two more chapters after this one! And like I said in Chapter 1, this fic was completely plagerized from The Waiting Game, a Harlequin Intrigue by Jayne Ann Krentz. I totally love the story so of course I stole it, slashed it, and posted it. ...um, sorry?

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><p>The drive back into Seattle was the longest and most exhausting travelling Sam had ever done in his life. He decided that the normal stresses and strains of rush-hour traffic are not enhanced by the fact that your passenger is casually holding a gun in his lap.<p>

Nick Sa'mael didn't say much during the drive. He was undoubtedly contemplating his imminent retirement, Sam thought as he navigated the off ramp from the interstate and found the street that led down to the ferry docks.

Sa'mael kept the gun discreetly shielded under a jacket but he kept it aimed in Sam's direction. Sam had a hunch that once he had parked his car on the ferry Sa'mael wouldn't allow him to go up onto the passenger decks. The thought of sitting on the car deck for the entire length of the ferry ride was depressing.

He was right, of course. Sa'mael simply lounged in his corner of the car and watched him speculatively. Unobtrusively Sam glanced at his watch. His timing, at least, was good. If Dean had told the truth this morning, he would be catching the ferry that would be leaving Seattle forty minutes from now. He would have forty minutes to entertain Nick Sa'mael. His fingers flexed uneasily on the wheel.

The whole exercise would be extremely pointless if Dean didn't show up on the right ferry. Halfway across the bay Sam had a wild thought or two about throwing himself from the car and making a dash to the passenger decks. It would be a futile move and he knew it. Even if he chose not to use the gun, Sa'mael could probably run him down easily in the close confines of the parked cars. Besides, Sam reminded himself, that wasn't the plan. He had a much better one in mind.

If it worked. _Legends and reality_. Where did the truth stop and the legend begin? Perhaps in some cases there was no difference. Perhaps a person just had to make a leap of faith.

'You look nervous, Sam,' Sa'mael observed politely. 'I trust you're not wasting my time with this little chase? It won't do any good, if you are. I know what I'm doing.'

Sam shook his head. 'All I want is for you to take the information about the gold and leave.'

'Sounds simple enough. I do like simple plans; don't you?'

'Yes.' How simple was his?

'Will you dream about the gold you could have had, Sam? Will you think about it occasionally in the future? Wonder what it might have been like to have your hands on your uncle's cache?'

Again Sam shook his head. 'Even if the gold is still there, I don't see how I could get it out. How are you going to accomplish that little feat, Sa'mael? Just walk into that part of the world and tell the current government officials you'd like to do a little digging on their borders?'

Sa'mael chuckled. Sam was learning to hate that poor excuse of a laugh. 'Nothing that obvious. I prefer quieter techniques. I have contacts and I'll have cash with which to grease the way. I'll be going in through Saudi Arabia. That gold must be somewhere near the Saudi-Kuwait border.'

'Gold is heavy. You won't be able to simply hoist it over your shoulder and hike out of the country with it. Not if there's as much there as you seem to think.'

'I'll have help,' he explained absently.

Sam slanted him a curious glance. 'Help?'

'There are men who will undertake a great many risks for a promise of a split of the profits.' He shrugged.

'You'll find some mercenaries to help you get the gold out?'

'They undoubtedly think of themselves as entrepreneurs,' Sa'mael murmured.

Sam closed his eyes and willed the ferry to a faster speed. He couldn't take much more of this unremitting tension. Whether his scheme worked or not, all he wanted to do at the moment was get it over and done with. He didn't see how anyone could live constantly under the stress of genuine danger. It was easy to see how any person might crack.

The ferry docked eventually and Sam turned the key in the ignition with a sense of fatalism. Forty minutes from now, if he was very, very lucky, Dean would be driving off a similar ferry. If he was not so fortunate… Sam pushed the thought aside. There wasn't much point dwelling on that possibility. He would deal with it when the time came.

He drove slowly along the narrow road that wound around the island's perimeter, more slowly than was really necessary. Any time he could eat up this way was that much less that had to be used up at the house waiting for Dean.

For the first time since he had arrived in the Seattle area the weather was finally beginning to live up to its reputation. The day was rapidly turning gray and overcast. A light mist began to fall.

'Come on, let's get going.' With one of his first hints of impatience, Sa'mael moved the gun in an ugly gesture.

Sam tried to think of something calming to say. 'You don't have to use the ferry to get back off the island, you know. You can drive across a bridge on the far side. It's the long way around if you're trying to get back to the airport or Seattle, but-'

'Just shut up. I know my way around.'

Of course he did. He was, after all, a _professional_. He wouldn't trap himself on an island. Sam pulled into the driveway in front of Dean's house. The windows were still dark, so that removed the possibility that by some miracle Dean had actually arrived home ahead of him. _Forty minutes_.

'Is it true?' Sam began hesitantly as he slowly opened his car door.

'Is what true?' Sa'mael reached out and snapped the keys from his hand and pocketed them.

'That you really have a chance of getting that gold out of the Middle East?'

'Believe me, I wouldn't be going to all this trouble if I didn't think it was possible.' Sa'mael made a careful outside inspection of the house, reassuring himself that no one was around. Then he cast an amused glance at Sam. 'What's the matter, kid? Having second thoughts about giving me that map?'

Sam stopped at the top of the steps and looked back at the hawk faced man. 'I admit that until now I assumed the gold was completely inaccessible.'

Sa'mael chuckled. 'For years I believed it probably didn't exist at all! Singer hid the truth well behind the legend. He made everyone think it really was just one more wild tale set in the last days of the war. There were a hundred other similar stories and there was no reason to think this one was for real. But a year ago I came across an old file that had been sealed since shortly after Kuwait City was liberated. The one thing that damned war generated was paperwork. Files and memos and reports will probably still be turning up twenty years from now. At any rate this one contained some notes by a journalist who claimed he'd interviewed some villagers in the south. He said they told him a story about an American agent who had worked with them toward the end of the war. They described him as a man who knew how to laugh and how to hold his whiskey. A man who was always telling stories. A man who could sketch your face before you even realized he was holding a pencil.'

Sam caught his breath.

'Exactly.' Sa'mael nodded grimly. 'A perfect description of Bobby Singer. The reporter's notes went on to tell a fascinating story. It culminated in Singer's departure for the Saudi Arabian border with a jeep full of gold. The villagers didn't actually see the gold in Singer's jeep but they did see the share of it he left for them. He apparently stashed it in the village well and told the elders to wait until the Iraqi troops had passed through before digging it back out. Just like Singer to make a grand gesture like that. He was a brilliant agent, but he had some definite weaknesses. When I put that report together with the legend I'd first heard back in 2002, I began to believe I might be dealing with more than just another war tale. It's taken me months to piece together some idea of what might have happened and where. The file with the journalist's notes led to other files. Eventually I knew I was onto the real thing.'

'What happened to the journalist?' Sam heard himself ask.

'He died,' Sa'mael said carelessly. 'An accident down in South America earlier this year, I believe.'

'I see.' He wondered how much Sa'mael had had to do with the 'accident.'

His mouth twisted wryly. 'I do believe I recognize that look in your eyes, little Sam.'

'What look?'

'Greed, kid. Pure unadulterated greed. I saw it in your boyfriend's eyes yesterday and it's in yours today.'

Sam feigned a nonchalant movement of his shoulders and turned to open the front door. There was no sound from within. The house was as quiet and innocent looking as it had been that first night when he'd arrived and searched Dean's study.

'Doesn't your boyfriend believe in locking his front door?' Sa'mael drawled as he followed Sam into the house. He held the gun at the ready while he verified that the place was empty.

'He says there's virtually no crime around here.'

'A trusting soul.' Sa'mael smirked. He took in his surroundings with a quick, professional eye. 'I take it back. It goes beyond trusting. I think we can safely say your friend Winchester is probably a fool.'

'And what about me?' Sam slung his jacket down on the sofa and turned to face Sa'mael.

'Oh, you're very smart, Sam. Very smart indeed, if you're telling the truth.' Sa'mael's eyes hardened. 'Where's the map?'

Sam grabbed for his courage, using all of his willpower to keep his expression cool. 'I've tried to tell you, it's not exactly a map,' he began carefully.

'What the hell are you talking about?' The violence in Sa'mael was very close to the surface.

'My uncle has his own unique way of doing things. You know that. He made sure I'd have the information I needed but he hid it in a unique manner. I don't know how he gave Dean his information, but I think I know where my copy is.' His fists clenched unconsciously. He wondered if Sa'mael realized just how nervous he was.

'Sam, let's not play any games. You'll lose, believe me. Where's the map?'

'It's not a map. I'm trying to explain. It's a sort of… of code.'

Sa'mael stared at him. 'A code? You told me you and your uncle didn't go in for codes.'

'I said we didn't have any prearranged greeting signals.'

'Then what are you saying?'

'I'll show you.' Moving cautiously so as not to alarm the other man, Sam turned and started down the hall toward the study. This business of trying to think two steps ahead of a man with a gun was tricky. Frighteningly tricky. He glanced at the hall clock. The ferry that might or might not be bringing Dean to the rescue had left Seattle by now. His fate was in the hands of the Washington State ferry system. They claimed to have an excellent safety record.

Sa'mael was close behind him as he stepped into the study. The crystal apple gleamed on Dean's desk, still pinning his note. Beyond it the manuscript of _Phantom_ waited.

'There,' Sam murmured, indicating the pile of typed pages. 'Everything you want to know about that gold is in that manuscript. My uncle has jotted down little doodles and notes all over the margins, you see.'

Sa'mael stared first at the stack of papers and then gestured viciously at Sam with the nose of the gun. 'You fucking bastard. What kind of game do you think you're playing?'

Sam hugged himself, trying to master the faint trembling that threatened to weaken his limbs. His head bent forward and a sweep of his hair hid his expression. 'It's there. I promise you. And I know how to get at the information you want. It's in code and my uncle once taught me the code. It will take a while, but I can do it.'

'Why you little fool!' Sa'mael snarled. 'Stalling isn't going to get you anywhere. There's no one around to come to your rescue. If there was any likelihood of that, I'd never have agreed to let you drag me here.'

'No.' Sam shook his head and lifted his chin defiantly. 'I'm not trying to stall. I'm… I'm trying to make a deal. You said you were going to be hiring professional help to assist you in getting the gold out of the middle east. Well, I want you to consider me as hired help, too. I can decode Uncle Bobby's doodles on that manuscript. I can do it here and now, in fact, and prove that what I'm saying is true. In return, I want you to cut me in for a piece of the action.'

He studied Sam derisively. 'You've got your uncle's nerve, little boy, I'll say that for you. Decode the manuscript. What a crock of-'

'It's true,' Sam insisted. 'You know Uncle Bobby. It would be just like him to hide the information so I would be sitting right on top of it all the time. That manuscript was waiting for me at his cabin the other day. It was right out in the open. You'd overlooked it, naturally. He says people always overlook the obvious. But I recognized the doodles on the margins. It's the code he taught me when I was a little boy. It was a game we used to play together. Give me half an hour and I'll have the information you need to find that gold.'

Sa'mael was clearly and dangerously undecided. His eyes slid from the manuscript to Sam's face and back again. 'Half an hour?'

Sam nodded quickly. 'Is it a deal?'

'I can afford half an hour's wait. I was prepared to wait for much longer than that for Singer to return. And your boyfriend is no doubt getting ready to land in Mexico City so there's plenty of time on that end. All right, my greedy little Sammy boy. You've got yourself a deal.'

'You'll cut me in for a slice of the profit?' He had to make it sound real, Sam told himself. He tried to inject just the right note of hopeful greed.

'Sure. Why not?' Sa'mael threw himself down into a chair in the corner. 'Half an hour. And if it turns out that you're lying, little boy-'

'I'm not lying.' Sam sat down slowly behind the desk. From there he was looking through the study door and into the hall beyond. Nick Sa'mael would be able to see anyone who came through the door but from his seat in the corner he could not see into the hall as Sam could. Sam figured he would have a couple of seconds' advance notice if and when Dean arrived. Nervously he reached out and pulled the manuscript toward him.

He found himself staring down at the sketch of the wolf. For an instant it almost paralyzed him. Then, with excessive care, he turned over the first page of _Phantom_ and picked up a pencil.

Time ticked past with a slowness that made Sam think he was waiting for eternity to end. He would have no way of knowing until the last moment whether or not Dean would arrive. Dean would have the warning about the invasion of his house shortly after he drove off the ferry. He would probably leave the car down the road and walk the final few meters, Sam decided. Neither he nor Sa'mael would have the sound of a vehicle to alert them.

Carefully he went through the manuscript, occasionally stopping to jot down a meaningless number or word on the notepad beside him. It would be particularly ironic if there really was a code imbedded in his uncle's margin doodles, Sam decided at one point. A real joke on him. As far as he knew he was looking at nothing more than meaningless notes and drawings.

Time crept past. Outside the window the mist turned to rain. Sam turned on the desk lamp. Sa'mael's eyes never left him as he went page by page through the manuscript. His patience was as amazing to Sam as Dean's had been. Where did they learn that kind of skill? Perhaps some people were just born with it. It was a cinch he wasn't one of those lucky souls. Sam shuddered and turned over another page. He would force himself not to sneak another glance at the clock or his watch for at least ten minutes, Sam decided resolutely at one point. The last thing he wanted to do was give Sa'mael the idea that he was waiting for someone. He kept his head bent over the manuscript for what he estimated must surely be at least ten minutes if not more and then, unable to resist, he slid his gaze upward to the clock on the wall near the door.

He almost didn't see Dean standing in the shadows of the hall. When he did, he thought his breath had stopped errantly. Dean was simply waiting there, watching him in absolute silence. It was as if a ghost had materialized out of thin air and in his odd, light-headed state of mind Sam might have believed just that if it hadn't been for the rain-dampened Windbreaker Dean wore. It took him another instant to see the gun in his hand.

'Something wrong, Sam?' Sa'mael asked conversationally from the corner. He lifted his gun in an easy threat. 'You seem a little tense.'

Sam swallowed and dropped his eyes from Dean's still, shadowed figure to the crystal apple in front of him. 'I've just realized that I made a mistake.'

'Did you?' Sa'mael seemed only politely interested. 'Just what kind of mistake would that be, little Sam?'

Sam picked up the apple and held it so that it caught the light from the desk lamp. 'The information you want isn't in the manuscript.'

'Then you have a problem, don't you, Sam,' Sa'mael said with brutal emphasis.

Sam shook his head. 'No. I don't think so. Not anymore.' He tossed the apple up in the air and caught it again. 'Here's what you want, Mr. Sa'mael.' He tossed the crystal object once more and caught it easily. Beyond the door Dean did not move. He was as still as midnight waiting to descend. Sam couldn't see his eyes but he knew they would be quite colourless.

'I think,' Sa'mael said abruptly, 'That I've had enough of your games, you bastard.'

'Ah, but I'm so good at them,' Sam protested gently. 'What you want is right out here in front of your very eyes, Mr. Sa'mael. As clear as crystal. Just the sort of trick my uncle would pull, don't you think?' With sudden decision he hurled the apple toward the wall.

'What the hell… I've had it with you, kid. I'm going to kill you for this!' Without warning, Sa'mael's patience snapped. He surged out of the chair, his gun trained on Sam but his eyes following the apple as it crashed against the dark paneling.

The sound of the heavy crystal striking the wall and falling to the floor was lost beneath Nick Sa'mael's scream of pain and rage as Dean floated through the doorway and brought the base of the gun down in the direction of the other man's skull. In the split second before the butt of the gun would have made contact with his head, however, some instinct must have warned Sa'mael. He threw himself to one side, tumbling across the desk. Dean's gun struck him violently on the shoulder but it didn't stun him. The weapon Sa'mael had been holding, however, fell to the floor and skidded along the hardwood surface until it struck the edge of a rug.

On the other side of the desk, Sam gasped. He was trapped against the wall as the momentum of Sa'mael's panicked, sliding rush across the desk threw the man toward him. An instant later Sa'mael seized Sam even as he stumbled wildly to his feet. Sharp steel blossomed in his hand. He held the knife to Sam's throat, his arm locking the younger man against his body.

'Hold it right there, Winchester. Come one step closer and I swear I'll kill him.'

Sam couldn't take his eyes off Dean. The temperature in the study seemed to have suddenly dropped by about twenty degrees.

Dean's face was utterly without emotion. It reminded Sam of the way he had watched the fish dying at his feet the other morning on the pier but it was a thousand times more remote. He didn't look at Sam. His whole attention was on the heavily breathing man who was holding the knife to young man's throat.

'Let him go, Sa'mael.'

'You think I'm crazy? He's my ticket out of here. Drop the gun.' He jerked his arm more tightly around Sam's neck. 'I said, drop it, damn you! Think I'm playing games?'

'No, I don't think you're playing games.' Moving slowly and deliberately, Dean took a step forward and set his handgun down on the floor at his feet. The blue steel gleamed savagely in the light of the desk lamp.

'Come on, you bastard.' Sa'mael tugged Sam round the edge of the desk, clearly heading toward the spot where his own weapon had landed when it had been jolted from his hand. 'Move, damn you!'

Sam tried to make his body as heavy and resisting as possible but the feel of the steel at the base of his throat kept him from refusing to cooperate entirely. Sa'mael would use that knife, he knew. Just as he would use the gun when he got his hands on it.

Across the room Dean stood balanced a step away from his own weapon. If push came to shove, Sam didn't doubt but that he'd make a grab for it. Dean watched Sa'mael the way a wolf might watch a circling hyena.

'Your best bet is to make a run for it, Sa'mael. Hanging on to Sam will only slow you down.'

Sam felt the tension in his captor's body as he pulled him toward the gun. 'I've come too far in my search of that gold, Winchester. I'm not leaving without getting what I want.'

'Sam doesn't know where it is.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. I can't quite figure out sweet Sam. But Singer knows where it is, and when he finds out I've got his nephew, he'll bargain.'

'You think so? I've never known Singer to bargain for anything without coming out on top,' Dean said thoughtfully.

'You don't know him as well as I do,' Sa'mael assured the other man. He stopped beside the gun on the floor and his fingers bit abruptly into Sam's shoulder. 'Bend down very slowly, Sam, and pick up the gun, muzzle first. And keep in mind that I'll have this knife at the nape of your neck.'

Sam realize that it would be dangerously awkward for Sa'mael to try scooping up the gun while still retaining a stranglehold on him. The action might give Dean the opening for which he was clearly waiting. So Sa'mael was going to make him pick up the lethal chunk of steel and hand it over politely to replace the knife.

Sam glanced down at the gun and then up at Dean's still, unreadable face. If he gave the gun to Sa'mael, he would surely use it against the one thing that stood between him and the door; Dean.

'Do as I say!'

Slowly Sam knelt, aware of the tip of the knife following his nape. Dean didn't move, his eyes never leaving Sa'mael's face. Sam went all the way down on his knees and reached out reluctantly for the muzzle of the gun.

'Hurry up,' Sa'mael snarled, forced to bend over slightly in order to keep the knife within striking distance of his neck. 'Pick it up and give it to me!'

He wasn't going to get a better opportunity, Sam realized. It was now or never. Handing the gun to Sa'mael was the equivalent of signing Dean's death warrant. He took a deep breath.

Then he threw himself full-length on the floor and rolled to one side, straight into Sa'mael's legs. His falling body covered the gun.

'Damn you!'

The knife flashed as Sa'mael was forced to step backward in order to regain his balance. The blade arced downward, scoring Sam's shoulder. He felt the icy sting of the steel even as he struck his captor's left leg. The pain brought a startled cry to his lips.

'Sam!'

His name was the only sound Dean made. In the next instant he launched himself across the room in a deadly rush.

But Sa'mael was already moving. He hurled the blade straight at Dean, who must have guessed what was going to happen next. Sam opened his eyes in time to see Dean throw himself to one side. The blade whipped harmlessly past and imbedded itself deep into the far wall. The rushing assault had served to draw the snake's fangs.

In the small space of time he had bought for himself, Sa'mael glanced down and seemed to realize he didn't stand a chance if he took another moment to push Sam off his gun. He raced for the door even as Dean dived for his own gun.

Sam gasped in pain, his fingers going to the wound on his shoulder just as Dean leaped for the door. Sam's groan of discomfort stopped Dean as effectively as a steel cable. He whirled and came back to Sam even as the sound of Sa'mael's running footsteps disappeared down the hall.

'My God, Sam.' Dean went down on his knees beside him. 'How bad is it? Let me see.' Carefully he guided Sam to a sitting position, pulling the younger man's face into his shoulder as he pushed aside the shirt.

'I… I don't think it's all that bad,' Sam managed, inhaling sharply as he leaned into Dean. He was trembling. 'It just hurts.'

'I know, Sam,' Dean soothed in a soft growl as he examined the shoulder. 'I know. But you're right. It isn't very deep. Do you think you can handle it yourself?'

'Myself?' Sam lifted his head in astonishment and then realized what Dean meant. 'Dean, you're not going after him!'

'I've got to, Sam. You know that.'

'No, I do _not_ know that,' he retorted. 'Let the police worry about him. It's not your job-'

'Sam, it is my job.' Dean's face was a cold mask, his light green eyes frozen, crystal pools. 'After what he's done to you, I don't have any choice.'

'No, damn it!' Sam raged, grabbing at him as Dean rose to his feet. 'You'll never catch him, anyway. He'll take my car. He's got the keys.' But even as he argued he realized there was no sound of a car leaving the drive.

'I took care of the car before I came into the house. A precaution.' Dean moved away from him, scooping up the gun and starting for the door. 'He'll be on foot and unarmed. This is easy hunting, Sam. Don't worry about it.'

'I don't want you going hunting! Please, Dean, wait….'

But he was calling to no one. Dean had already disappeared down the hall after his quarry.

_Easy hunting_. Sam's breath caught in his chest. He didn't want Dean going hunting. In that moment he would have given his soul to keep him from pursuing Sa'mael.

Once again Sam remembered the way Dean had watched the fish dying on the pier.

Outside the house Dean paused briefly on the porch, listening. He shoved the gun back into the leather holster he wore at the base of his spine. The rain was coming down heavily now, obscuring visibility. Sam's car stood silently in the drive, unable to function since he'd clipped two strategic wires.

He'd really made a mess of this, Dean told himself grimly as he started down the porch steps at a long, loping run. Everything was coming apart in his hands, and to top it all off, he'd nearly gotten Sam killed. The fury and fear he had felt when he'd realized what was happening inside the study were unlike anything he'd ever experienced in his life. The combination of the two had risen up to choke him, causing him to mishandle the situation badly.

But Sam was safe now. The knife had drawn blood but it hadn't gone deep. The younger man had been too close to the floor, depriving Sa'mael of an easy target.

Sa'mael, Dean shook his head as his sense of logic returned. There were only two ways off the island, the ferry from Winslow and the bridge at the far end of Bainbridge. Sa'mael would head for the highway and try to commandeer a car to go for the bridge. The ferry was already pulling out of its slip on the return run to Seattle. There would be no chance for Sa'mael to catch it.

His hunting instincts told Dean that Sa'mael would stick as much as possible to the wooded terrain until he spotted a car that could be hailed. And he would want to keep moving in the general direction of his goal, the bridge. Panicked quarry didn't think to backtrack or race off along a rout that would seem to be in the opposite direction. When you were trying to escape, the sense of urgency effectively destroyed a good portion of natural logic.

With grave certainty, Dean started toward the woods that bounded the road. He moved silently on the wet ground, oblivious to the rain that was soaking his hair and clothing. He knew he was heading in the right direction when he found the scrap of cloth Sa'mael had apparently lost when he'd blundered into a thick cluster of blackberry bushes. After that, the trail became increasingly easy to follow.

Just like old times, Dean thought with a chill that did not come from the rain. Maybe you could never really leave the past behind. Maybe it stayed with you forever.

He had told himself a year ago that a good, solid, iron-tight cover was the answer. A good cover had saved his life often enough in the past. Logically it should be able to provide him with a new life in the future. He'd had it all worked out, every detail in place, every aspect of his new world under control. He was a writer now, a slightly eccentric vegetarian, a man who could fall in love and marry just as other men and women did. If asked, he could have supplied a complete life history that would have satisfied any inquiring reporter.

The cover had been letter perfect until this afternoon when he'd walked into his study and seen the truth in Sam's eyes. That's when Dean had learned that there was no such thing as a perfect cover.

Sam knew who he was. He'd blown it all when he'd stood in the hall with a gun in his hand.

A good cover, it seemed, couldn't quite cover up the past.

Sa'mael was moving with increasing carelessness. Probably because there hadn't been any traffic on the quite road. Maybe he was beginning to realize that making his way to the other end of the island was going to be very difficult.

Not difficult, Dean thought savagely. Impossible. Sa'mael wasn't going to drive, walk or fly off Bainbridge Island. At least not under his own power. Dean quickened his pace, gliding silently through the rain-wet trees, skirting the berry bushes and listening with every nerve in his body.

In another couple of minutes he heard the first faint sounds of his quarry. Sa'mael might be good but he obviously didn't know much about this kind of fieldwork. He was probably more accustomed to the streets of foreign cities. Most likely he'd never done a lot of real fieldwork in the Middle East or South America. An office spy. A man who worked embassies and cocktail parties.

_Easy hunting_.

Dean could hear him clearly now. Sa'mael wasn't far ahead of him. What lead he'd had had been chewed into by berry bushes, a driving rain and a woodsy terrain with which he wasn't familiar.

Dean, on the other hand, knew every inch of the woods around his house. He'd walked them often enough, head bent against a cold drizzle, hands stuffed into his jacket. He'd thought about _Phantom_ during those long walks. And he'd thought about the mysterious Sam.

_Sam. My passionate, impulsive, loving Sam_. Sam, from whom he would have done anything to keep the truth. Too late now. The cover was blown.

A rough, hastily bitten-off oath from the man ahead blended with the steady beat of the rain but Dean heard it. He slipped forward, starting to reach for the gun in the holster at his back. And then he caught sight of the muted, striped shirt Sa'mael was wearing. Sa'mael was having to swerve in order to go around another thicket of blackberry bushes. Dean changed his mind about the gun. _Easy hunting, Easy prey._

_You should never have touched him, Sa'mael. You should never have gone near Sam. It's going to cost you everything_.

Sa'mael trotted to the left, searching for a way around the thorny bushes. He heard nothing as Dean made his silent rush through the trees. In the last second, though, Sa'mael felt the movement behind him. He whirled, clawing at his pocket to withdraw a switchblade.

But he was too late. Dean's body catapulted into his quarry's, bearing both men to the soggy ground. Dean had his hand locked around the fist that held the knife. He crushed with all his strength, hearing something snap. Sa'mael yelled. The knife fell into a pile of leaves.

It was all over in less than a minute. Dean had the advantage and he used it. With brutal efficiency he used his hands to stun his opponent. In a startlingly short period of time Sa'mael lay limp and dazed beneath his attacker.


	10. Chapter 10

AN: Squeak...

* * *

><p>Sam adjusted the bandage on his shoulder for the twentieth time, using the bathroom mirror to guide him. It had been exceedingly awkward trying to bandage the wound without help but at last he'd gotten the bleeding stopped. He had been right. It hurt like hell, but the slicing cut wasn't all that deep. His gaze went to the watch on his wrist. It had been over two hours since Dean had left the house in pursuit of Sa'mael.<p>

Too much time. Sam was growing increasingly uneasy as the minutes ticked past. But he felt unusually ineffective. Not because he thought for a moment that Sa'mael would succeed in ambushing Dean, though. His mouth twisted in response to another stab of pain from his shoulder. No, Dean would get his man. The wolf was on the hunt and he always did what had to be done.

Just as Phantom always did what must be done.

What truly frightened him was the thought of Dean being thrown back into the life he had left behind. Sam would have given anything to keep him from having to resurrect the past. Because now he knew just how hard Dean had worked to put it behind him. But there was nothing he could do.

Dean was the man they had once called Wolf, the legend who had been only too real. Sam had been coming slowly to that conclusion all day as bits and pieces of evidence came together in his mind.

When he had realized that his only hope of escaping Sa'mael lay with Dean, Sam had acknowledged the truth. His life had depended on the man code-named Wolf, the man he had once imagined was a renegade killer.

And he had known on some instinctive level that Dean would save him. That was why he had lured Sa'mael back to the island house.

It was his love for Dean that had enabled him to view the evidence of Dean's past with different eyes. That love had begun from almost the first moment he had turned to find Dean watching him going through his study. Sam had known in that first glimpse that this man was different. He was his uncle's friend. The kind of man you could count on when the chips were down.

He had known for certain he was in love last night when he'd lain in Dean's arms and prayed he wouldn't leave in the morning.

It was all so clear now. Crystal-clear, in fact. Sam probably should have been suspicious from the start about his identity. Dean was a man who needed to control his environment, to maintain a cover. It was the way he had built a new life.

Sam took a deep breath and willed away the smothering pressure that gripped his chest as he wondered how Dean had felt when he'd realized his carefully structured world was crumbling around him. Sam ached to be able to reassure him but he was terribly afraid Dean wouldn't want the assurance. The older man had depended on no one but himself for too long.

The knock on the door shocked him into dropping the roll of tape he had been using. Sam frowned into the mirror. Dean wouldn't knock on his own door, surely. Nervously he held a square of gauze to his shoulder and adjusted his shirt as best he could. Then he went cautiously down the hall to the front door and peered through the tiny viewing port.

A man dressed in a wildly patterned aloha shirt and holding a festive striped umbrella stood on the porch.

'Uncle Bobby!' Sam flung open the door and grabbed the older man into his arms. 'My God, Uncle Bobby, are you all right? We've been so worried. Dean's gone after Sa'mael and it's been over two hours! I've been going out of my mind. How did you get here? Where have you been?'

'Easy, Sam,' Singer said, smiling up at him. 'One question at a time. Where did you say Dean was?'

Sam stepped back into the house and held the door. 'He's gone after Sa'mael.' He shook his head, trying to sort it all out for him. 'Sa'mael was holding me hostage. He was going to trade me to you for information about that damned gold. Dean rescued me but in the process Sa'mael got away.'

Singer arched shaggy eyebrows. 'He did?' He followed his nephew through the door, shaking out the umbrella as he did so. 'That doesn't sound like Dean.'

'Well, it was all very chaotic, believe me.' Sam sighed. 'Sa'mael was holding a knife at my throat and he'd made Dean throw down his gun. Oh, it's a long story. But the end result is that Sa'mael got clear and Dean went after him.'

'What's wrong with your shoulder?' Singer leaned forward, thick brows drawing into a solid line.

'Sa'mael scratched it with the knife.' Sam turned his head, trying to look at the gauze-covered wound. 'It's not really that bad but it hurts like Hell.'

'Knife wounds generally feel like fire. Here, let me see if you've got it properly bandaged.'

'The wound is all right, Uncle Bobby. It's Dean I'm getting worried about.' But he stood still while Bobby glanced at the slice in his shoulder and then taped down the gauze.

'Dean can take care of himself.'

'You two keep saying that about each other but, personally, I'm having severe doubts! And I didn't want Dean having to… to go back to his old business!'

Bobby tilted his head to one side, studying him speculatively. 'So you've figured out what the old business was?'

Sam nodded grimly. 'And I mean to have a heart-to-heart chat with you about that. But we can do it later. I've got other things on my mind just now.'

'So have I. Got any coffee? After a few days in sunny Hawaii, it's a bit of a shock to come back to Seattle.' Bobby started in the direction of the kitchen.

'But what about Dean?' Helplessly Sam followed in his uncle's wake.

Bobby Singer was the same as ever, he decided. You'd never know that behind the laughing blue eyes was a brain that could function in the most convoluted patterns. He was nearing sixty five now and had a fringe of well-trimmed gray hair. Singer had never gone to fat; his body was still whipcord lean. In addition to the aloha shirt, he was wearing sandals and a pair of white cotton slacks that were spotted with rain. On his wrist was a gold watch. It went nicely with the thin gold chain around his neck. Sam knew the gold was real. His uncle never wore fake gold.

'Dean will be back when he's taken care of things.' With the familiarity of a man who has frequently been a guest in the house, Bobby began making coffee. 'Damn sorry he had to clean up my mess, though.'

'Uncle Bobby,' Sam said with forced patience. 'Why don't you tell me what the hell has been happening?'

Bobby stretched and lifted a hand to rub the point between his shoulder blades. 'Well, to put it in simple terms, I've just spent the last few days following a false trail in Hawaii. Came back today when I realized it was a dead end. Sa'mael really had me running around the countryside,' he added ruefully. 'I feel like an idiot.'

'Who is Sa'mael, anyway?'

'Old business.'

'Oh, yes.' Sam nodded, remembering the voicemail message. 'You said something about taking care of old business.'

'Look, when Dean gets back, he's going to want some explanations, too. Why don't we wait until we're all sitting cosily around a nice warm fire. And what about dinner?'

'Dinner,' Sam said vengefully, 'is the last thing on my mind at the moment. What are we going to do about Dean?'

'Absolutely nothing. Never was much anyone could do about Dean,' his uncle said reflectively as he poured boiling water over instant coffee. 'Just aim him and pull the trigger.'

Sam felt sick to his stomach.

*o0O0o*

Sam knew who he was. _He knew who he was_. Dean couldn't forget the memory of Sam's description of the man he knew as Wolf. His words still rang in his head. A renegade killer or something equally picturesque. A man who, when he walked into a room, chilled everything and everyone. He'd seen the expression in Sam's eyes when he'd stood in the hall just outside the study early this evening. Sam had looked up from the manuscript and he had known that for Sam the room had grown very cold.

It was all over.

He drove back to the cabin with a sense of deep foreboding. There was a good chance Sam wouldn't even be there. Then what? When he pulled into the drive and saw the familiar green Toyota, he felt some sense of relief. Bobby was back. And that meant Sam was probably still around. His car was still there but that didn't mean much since Dean had disabled it earlier.

It was nice that Singer was home safe and sound, of course, Dean told himself as he opened the car door. But the real benefit to his return was that it meant Dean wouldn't have to face Sam alone. He still hadn't figured out what to say to the younger man and he was beginning to accept the fact that he might never figure it out. He'd never been very good with words around Sam. In any event, Sam would probably be gone from his life soon, anyway.

Sam wouldn't want to hang around a wolf.

He walked slowly up the porch steps. The wet night had descended completely now and the warm lights of the house beckoned. But Dean wasn't fooled. He knew the warmth was an illusion. Without Sam, there could be no real warmth in his life. He tried to dredge up some polite greetings, the sort of thing a man might say in this situation. He should be a gentleman about it. Give Sam an out. But deep inside he wasn't sure he could do it. He wanted Sam and he'd begun to believe lately that he could have him. The thought of letting the man walk out now filled him with a tight, gnawing tension.

There were a lot of things a man could take in this world but a person's love was not among them. It had to be given willingly and it had to be for real. He had spent the last few days realizing the truth of that. The wonder of having Sam for himself couldn't be pushed back into the corners of his mind where he now kept other things that were better forgotten. He just couldn't give him up.

But Sam hated and feared the man called Wolf.

The mechanical-sounding words Dean had been practicing as he climbed the steps were wiped out of his head as the front door was thrown open.

'It's about time you got back!' Sam exclaimed as he hurried across the porch. 'Dean, it's been hours!'

He felt the hard impact as Sam almost hurled himself against Dean. Automatically Dean's arms went around him. He was dazed by the greeting.

'Sam?'

'You said you'd be back on the five-fifty-five ferry,' Sam whispered into Dean's neck. 'I knew you'd get back on time. I knew all I had to do was have Sa'mael here and you'd take care of everything.'

Dean held Sam fiercely, absorbing the warmth of him. 'Yes.' He stroked Sam's hair wonderingly. 'I got the readout from the house alarm system right after I drove off the ferry.' His fingers tightened abruptly in Sam's hair. 'I've never been so scared in my life, Sam.'

'Hi, Dean, sorry about all this. Everything okay?'

Dean gazed over Sam's shoulder, his eyes meeting those of his friend. 'Everything's taken care of.' He felt Sam shiver in his arms.

Singer nodded. 'Figured it would be.'

'You may have a few questions to answer from your old pals at the agency in the morning, though.'

Singer's eyes gleamed. 'How's that?'

'I left Sa'mael tied up in a neat package a few meters off I-90. Then I called the West Coast agency office and left a message telling them where they could find him. When the guy who took the call demanded to know who was leaving the message-'

'You gave him my name.' Singer grinned ruefully. 'Thanks a lot, pal. Well, I guess I can't complain. I deserved it. Lord knows I owe you for taking care of Sam. Besides, maybe Hendriksen and his boys will be so delighted to have their hands on Sa'mael they won't want to ask too many question.'

Sam lifted his head, his hands moving upward to frame Dean's face. 'You didn't kill him.'

'No.'

Sam smiled. 'Of course not. Supper's almost ready. Go and take a hot shower. I'll pour you a glass of wine.' Sam pulled free and disappeared back into the house.

Dean stared after him, aware of a gnawing uncertainty. The uncertainty was painful but it was better than the cold, dead certainty of loss he'd been feeling earlier. Uncertainty contained hope. He followed Bobby into the house and headed for the bathroom, stripping off the wet Windbreaker as he moved.

Dean had been watching Sam since he'd emerged from the shower, trying to second-guess the young man's thoughts. Sam had chattered about the gold while he'd prepared a hearty rice and vegetable salad, making a joke out of his uncle's idea of a wedding gift. He'd poured Dean and Bobby a glass of wine and put the sourdough rolls in the oven while discussing Bobby's unplanned vacation in Hawaii. Then he'd kept up a running monologue on Singer's new aloha shirt and how typical it was of him to bring something like that back from Hawaii.

Bobby had talked easily, too, leaning against the kitchen counter while responding to the teasing about his new shirt.

'Glad you like it. Got three more in the suitcase. Picked 'em up while I waited for the flight back this morning.' He'd glance down at the front of the splashy shirt with obvious pleasure.

Dean had felt left out of the conversation but he hadn't known how to get into it. Sam and his uncle kept up a bright dialogue that covered everything under the sun except the subject of the man called Wolf. Dean told himself morosely that it was probably because they were both too polite to talk about someone when the object of the conversation was within hearing distance brooding over a glass of wine.

During dinner Sam finally pounced on his uncle, demanding answers. Dean surreptitiously kept an eye on Sam's lively hazel eyes while he quizzed Bobby Singer. Dean searched for signs of disgust or fear or rejection in the young man's expressive features. The strange inner anxiety was eating him alive, demanding assurances and explanations and at the same time preparing him for the worst. Surely, after everything Sam had believed about the man named Wolf, he couldn't possibly be this warm and nonchalant now.

Dean's fingers crumpled the napkin in his lap and he glanced down, vaguely astonished at the outward show of tension.

'All right, Uncle Bobby, let's have it,' Sam demanded as the meal came to a close. He leaned back in his chair, his fingertips steepled beneath his chin as he regarded Singer with a gleaming gaze.

'Well,' Bobby began with an easy grin, 'I had to go to about three shops before I found just the right selection of shirts but when I saw this one with the pineapples on it, I knew-'

'Bobby Singer, I am not talking about the aloha shirts and you know it. I want to know about the gold.'

'Ah, the gold,' he exhaled softly. 'I figure that you may not be able to get at it until sometime around your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, or you may have to let your children inherit the treasure map, but either way it makes an interesting wedding present, don't you think? Even if you never actually see the gold itself, you'll have it to talk about and laugh about and tell stories about. I can just hear the tales you'll be telling your kids.'

'I think,' Sam interrupted firmly, 'that we're getting a little ahead of ourselves. I'm not interested in what I may be telling my kids, especially since I'm not likely to have any.'

'Yet,' Bobby interjected wisely.

Sam raised his eyebrows but Dean noticed he didn't look at him. Sam kept his attention on Singer. 'I'm more concerned with the past at the moment. Did you or did you not steal CIA gold and stash it near the Saudi Arabian border?'

Singer grinned at Dean. 'He's rather aggressively direct when he wants an answer.'

'Umm.' Dean sipped the last of his wine and wondered why Sam hadn't been aggressively direct in pinning him down about Wolf. Maybe Sam didn't want to know the full truth. He set down the wineglass with grim care.

'Okay, Sam, here's the story,' Singer began. 'For starters, it wasn't CIA gold. It wasn't U.S. gold in any sense of the word, really. It belonged to some very astute gentlemen who were doing an active arms business under the guise of working in a civilian capacity for the U.S. government. I accidentally stumbled across them while working with some friends of mine.'

'Friends?'

Bobby nodded. 'I had spent a lot of time with the people of a particular village. They had been very useful during the war, supplying information and some very brave young men and women. At any rate, I was in the village when rumours came of the two arms dealers being killed. The business career of an arms dealer is precarious, to say the least. I was near the scene of the killing and, through a series of, uh, arranged coincidences, managed to get my hands on the gold.'

'Uh-huh.' Sam sounded distinctly sceptical. ''Arranged' being the operative word, I imagine.'

'I then had myself a problem. I knew things were deteriorating rapidly. Kuwait City was about to go under, and everyone who had any sense was aware of it. I was several miles away and there was no way I could make it back to the embassy with the gold. I would have been lucky to make it back with my life. So I decided on another rout out of the situation.'

'A rout that would allow you to take some of the gold with you?'

Singer chuckled. 'You know me and gold, Sam. I couldn't bring myself to just toss it away.'

'Sa'mael said he uncovered a file that indicated you left some of it behind with your friends in that village.'

Singer's shaggy brows lifted. 'A file, hmm? I wondered how he got curious enough about the gold after all these years to make a try for it. Well, Sam, let me tell you a fact of life. There's nothing quite as useful as gold when you're trying to survive in a country that's recently been overrun by a conquering army. And I owed those villagers. As for myself, I'd been making some friends near the Saudi Arabian border and decided to call in a few favours. I loaded my share of the gold on a jeep and drove to the border. There was no way I could get it out of the country, so I buried it, made a map and then rendezvoused with my contacts. They got me out of the country.'

'Where does Nick Sa'mael fit into all this?' Sam demanded.

'Sa'mael has been a thorn in the agency's side for some time. We all knew he was working both sides of the street.'

'He said something about working two jobs,' Sam said dryly. 'Was that what he meant? He was selling information to the other side?'

'Information we wanted him to sell, although he didn't know it. We used him after we learned he'd been turned.' Bobby smiled. 'but his usefulness was becoming limited from what my former associates have told me. Apparently the other side felt the same. Sa'mael was smart enough to sense that something was going wrong and wisely decided to disappear. Apparently he wanted a little nest egg to cushion his sudden retirement.'

'And he chose your cache of gold.'

'He'd been assigned to Baghdad during that last six months. We'd worked together on a couple of jobs. But I never did fully trust the man. I tried to plant my own rumours about the gold whenever I heard it mentioned after the war. I knew it would be almost impossible to keep the whole thing absolutely secret. There were all those villagers who knew about it, for one thing. And Lord knows who the arms dealers knew. But I made sure most of the gossip about the missing gold implied the stuff was government material kept at the embassy and used for clandestine operations. I sort of left the impression that the two arms dealers were really agents. And of course I kept my own name out of it. You never know. I didn't want to implicate myself. If someone knew the weapons story or got too friendly with the villagers, he might be able to track down more of the tale.'

'Apparently some journalist did get friendly with the villagers,' Sam said. 'And his notes somehow ended up in an old file that Sa'mael came across.'

Bobby sighed. 'I thought after all these years the story of the gold really had become nothing more than a legend.'

'Sa'mael said he deliberately planted a rumour about him being in Hawaii recruiting mercenaries to help him get your treasure,' Sam said.

Singer shook his head. 'I'm embarrassed to admit it worked. I got wind of the plan and did exactly as he anticipated. I took off for Hawaii.' He glanced at Dean. 'I honestly thought I'd have everything taken care of within forty-eight hours or so. Didn't think you'd be bothered with cleaning up the mess.'

Dean couldn't think of anything to say. He just nodded austerely and continued to watch Sam's face through narrowed eyes. Why didn't he say something about what had happened that afternoon. The suspense was going to shred him. A part of him wanted to get the confrontation over and done with. Another part wanted to pretend nothing devastating had occurred. Abruptly he pushed his chair away from the table and went over to where he kept the brandy.

'Can I pour you some, Bobby?' His voice felt thick and scratchy in his throat.

'Sounds great.' The older man beamed.

Sam focused on his uncle again. 'Sa'mael is definitely out of the way? He won't be bothering us again?'

Bobby Singer smiled. 'You don't have to worry about him. I'll talk to Hendriksen in the morning. But from what I hear the agency's tired of using him, anyway. Even if he got turned loose tomorrow, he realizes everyone knows who he is and what he's been doing. He'd disappear in a hurry.'

'He had plans, you know,' Sam mused.

Dean could feel Sam watching him as he poured the brandy. 'What plans?' he managed to ask, although he couldn't have cared less. Sa'mael, as Singer had just said, was no longer an issue. He'd made sure of that when he'd left the sullen man bound and gagged in the rain beside the freeway. Sa'mael was smart enough to know that everything had fallen apart. Sa'mael, too, knew what it meant to have his cover completely blown.

'He thought that, given the map and a few carefully selected mercenaries, he could get into Saudi Arabia and get at the gold. He told me all about his scheme,' Sam finished blithely. 'Aren't you going to pour me some brandy, too?'

Dean turned back to the counter and poured another glass. 'Sorry,' he muttered shortly. When Dean handed it to him, Sam raised it cheerfully.

'Here's to finally getting some answers.' He downed a healthy swallow.

Bobby grinned. 'Haven't I always told you that answers are always crystal-clear once you know where to look?'

With a snap, Sam set down the brandy snifter. 'Speaking of crystal-clear answers,' he began. And then he was on his feet, moving quickly down the hall toward the study.

Singer traded glances with Dean. It was the first time they'd been alone together without Sam in the room. 'Everything's under control?'

Dean nodded. 'Yeah. The agency will handle it. I really did lead them to believe you were the one who'd wrapped Sa'mael up for Christmas. I guess if Sa'mael says too much, though, Hendriksen may figure out I'm still around.'

Singer chuckled. 'Even if he does, you'll be all right. You're old news now, I'm afraid. The last time I talked to Hendriksen I casually brought up your name just to see what he'd say. He wasn't terribly interested, frankly. You'd be a minor curiosity and that's it. Hendriksen won't push it. He owes you and he knows it. He's a good man. Pays his debts.'

'I like being old news.' Dean thought about that. 'But Sam…'

'Don't worry about Sam,' Singer said softly. 'he's my nephew. I know him.'

'He's a young man,' Dean countered. 'And he had a wild image of Wolf built up in his mind. What did you tell him about me, Singer?'

'Only bits and pieces. I was very concerned about you a year ago, my friend. I wasn't sure if the book was going to be the therapy you needed. I guess I had a few drinks with Sam one evening and talked. More than I should have, probably. He took the information and embroidered it a bit with his rather active imagination.'

'Did you really give his some idiotic story about the temperature, uh, dropping in a room when I walked in?' Dean demanded.

Singer blinked. 'I suppose I did. There are times when it's perfectly true.'

Dean winced. 'No wonder I don't get many invitations to cocktail parties.'

Bobby Singer howled with laughter. 'Don't worry. The description only applies when you're working. If you're not getting party invitations, it's because people suspect you're not the party type. Not because they don't need an extra ice bucket.'

'What about telling him I was a… a renegade?'

Singer looked surprised. 'I never said that. I'm afraid he came to that conclusion on his own. I told him that I had trained a man who wound up with the code name of Wolf and that I was now worried about him. I guess he assumed-' He was about to say something else and stopped as Sam trotted back down the hall, tossing the crystal apple in his hands. 'Ah, the apple.'

'Yes, the apple.' Sam pinned him with a mock ferocious glance. 'This is where the answer is, right Uncle Bobby? Clear as crystal?'

He nodded genially. 'It's a microdot masquerading as one of the bubbles captured in the crystal. Pretty little apple, isn't it? I had one made especially for both you and Dean. You each have half of the map. That's the wedding present, you see. Not the gold itself but the adventure of having a treasure map of your very own. And someday, someone in your family will be able to go after the gold. Maybe twenty years from now, when the politics and violence in that part of the world have changed. Maybe the next generation will get it. Who knows? In the meantime you'll have the fantasy.'

'It was a brilliant gift idea,' Sam said with a warm smile.

'I thought so. Just the thing for a man with an overactive imagination. When did you figure out that the apple was the key?''

'While I was talking to Sa'mael. I knew the answer wasn't in the manuscript.' he slid a quick glance at Dean. '_Phantom_ answers other questions, but it doesn't tell where the gold is hidden. I just used that as an excuse to get Sa'mael back here to the house. I figured out the role of the apple, though, when I put everything I knew together. The gold, you implied, was a wedding gift. Something to be shared. And you had given both Dean and me an apple. It was a link between us. The key. Then there was your penchant for hiding things out in the open, the way you always say answers are crystal-clear. The apple itself has a gold stem and leaf and that was another clue. The gold on the apple was meant to be a connection to the gold in the middle east, right? And you'd given us the basic clue when you told Dean the legend. Last but not least, I knew you always like to cover your bases. You would have wanted the information available to both Dean and me just in case something ever happened to you. It made sense that you had given us the answers. And you would have given them to us jointly. All we had to do was look around.'

'And you realized that the only thing I had given both of you was the apple.' Singer nodded. 'Not bad, Sam. Not bad at all.'

'Games,' Dean heard himself mutter.

'Better get used to them if you're going to marry into the family,' Bobby advised lightly.

'I've played enough for one day. If you both will excuse me, I'm going to go to bed. Bobby, you can have the couch. Your nephew has the spare bedroom.' Dean got to his feet.

Sam's head came up quickly. 'Dean…'

He stood still, looking down at him. 'What is it, Sam?'

'I… I just wondered about your trip this morning.' he chewed on his lower lip, obviously searching for the right words. 'I mean, Sa'mael seemed to think you'd gone to Mexico.'

'That's what I wanted him to think.'

'But…'

'I bought the ticket. But the plane made a few stops between here and Mexico City. I got off in L.A.'

'I see,' Sam said quietly. 'You planned it that way to make Sa'mael think you'd left the country to go after the gold yourself.'

'I thought my leaving would draw him out into the open,' Dean explained very patiently. 'I figured he'd make his try at night, thinking you'd be alone. I'd planned to circle back and be waiting for him. I had it all worked out. But you rewrote the rules.'

'He tricked me,' Sam protested. 'I had a phone call from Uncle Bobby. Or at least I thought it was from him. Sa'mael made a recording from the voice messages on the machine in Bobby's cottage and mixed up the words into whole new sentences.'

'I know,' Dean said. 'Sa'mael told me.'

Sam eyed him curiously. 'Did he?'

'He told me a great many things,' Dean said. 'Good night, Bobby. Sam.' He left the room.

Sam watched him go, the smile fading from his eyes and being replaced by a wistful yearning. Slowly he lowered the apple into his lap as he sat down beside his uncle.

'He has a nerve accusing us of playing games,' Sam muttered. 'What does he think he was doing today when he fed me that song and dance about going off to find a mysterious contact who might know where you were?'

Singer swirled the brandy in his glass. 'He wasn't playing games. Dean never plays games. He simply didn't want you to know the truth.'

'What truth?'

'That he didn't have any magic man to contact. The only one around he could depend on to protect you was himself. He had to make Sa'mael believe he had really left town and the only way to do that was to actually get on the plane. Mexico City was the logical choice because it has a reputation in the industry. Sa'mael made all the assumptions he was supposed to make when he discovered that was Dean's destination.'

''But why didn't Dean tell me?' Sam sighed.

'He wanted to keep you from finding out the truth about him. In the end there was no way he could accomplish that. Not and save your life, too.'

'What did you mean about Dean never playing games?

'Just that.' Bobby took a long swallow of brandy and gazed up at the beamed ceiling for a moment. 'You and I, Sam, we have a capacity for stepping back emotionally from a situation we don't like. You did it all the time in the corporate world. You treated it as a game when it threatened to get too serious or intense. I saw you do it in the academic world and when you played at being an artist. It was a survival mechanism for you. It works very well. I should know. I've used it myself. I could frequently put my work into that kind of perspective when things got too grim. I would detach myself and instinctively try to see all the moves and countermoves as just part of a great big chess game.'

'And Dean couldn't do that?'

'No. For him it was very real. He gave everything he had to his work and it finally took its toll.'

'_Phantom_.' Sam stared down at the crystal and gold apple. 'The real truth in the manuscript isn't the hint about the gold that you put in, is it? It's the part Dean put into the story. The reality of what he faced.'

'When he finally realized the job would eventually break him, he turned in his resignation. It wasn't accepted. They told him there was one last mission.'

'And he went on it.' Sam shuddered. 'I think he just barely survived, Uncle Bobby.'

'He did what he had to do. Dean always does what has to be done. He was quite lethally serious about his work and that attitude made him the best there was in the industry.'

'Better than you, Uncle Bobby?'

'Better than me. But the violence and the frustration of that last job were the end for him. When it was over he simply disappeared. He showed up on my doorstep three months later, calling himself Dean Winchester.'

'That's not his real name?' Sam asked in astonishment.

Bobby Singer smiled. 'It is now. I told you, Dean doesn't play games. Everything is for real. He took another name and started a new life. He would have done anything to keep it real.'

'Well, it is real,' Sam protested. 'Nothing's changed.'

'Now you know the truth about him,' his uncle pointed out quietly.

'But I don't feel any differently about him,' Sam breathed. 'How could he think-'

'Apparently you gave him quite a horror story about Wolf.'

'That was all your fault. You're the one who told me the tale!'

'I was a little drunk that night as I recall. And I was genuinely worried about Dean. I wasn't certain writing the book was going to work for him.'

'That's no excuse. You told me things-'

'They were all true,' Bobby Singer said, giving him a level glance. 'But I will not assume responsibility for what you did to the facts with your imagination.'

Sam grimaced. 'When I found myself realizing this afternoon that my only chance for surviving lay with Dean, I knew who he was. I also knew that whatever he had been, he was now the person I loved. You were right about him. He's the kind of man you can count on when the chips are down. Why did you sketch that wolf's head on the manuscript?'

'I was just doodling. It was natural that I'd be thinking about Wolf when I read the tale of Phantom.'

'I suppose so. It put me on the wrong track altogether, though. I thought it was Wolf you had gone after.' Sam fell silent for a moment. 'I guess I'll go to bed, too.'

'You do that,' his uncle murmured blandly.

Sam shot him a half-humorous, half-rueful glance. 'Going to throw your favourite nephew to the wolf?'

'Wolves take care of their own.' Bobby got up and headed across the room to the brandy bottle. 'Good night, Sam.'

Sam went over to him and threw an arm around the older man in a brief hug. 'Good night, Uncle Bobby. I'm real glad you're safe.'

'Not half as glad as I am that you're okay. Guess I owe Dean for that.'

Sam said nothing. He merely smiled and walked down the hall toward Dean's bedroom with a deep sense of certainty.

Lying in bed, his arms folded behind his head, Dean stared into the darkness and listened to the sound of Sam's footsteps. He waited for them to stop outside Sam's bedroom door, and when they didn't even pause he tensed.

It would be best if Sam stayed in his own room, he told himself. Quickly, silently, he ran down a list of why the younger man shouldn't open his door tonight. Too much had happened today and Sam was inclined to be emotional. He was also inclined to be impulsive. The younger man needed time to sort out his feelings. Dean didn't want Sam coming to him without having had time to absorb the full implications of what he had learned about Dean today. Sam might be feeling sorry for him. He might have convinced himself that Dean needed him and was too compassionate to deny him comfort. Dean didn't want his pity.

So many reasons, he thought savagely. So many excellent reasons why he should send Sam back to his own room if he dared to open the door.

Sam turned the doorknob and stepped inside. Dean looked at him as he stood silhouetted against the light and knew that he could never find the willpower to send the younger man back. He needed Sam's warmth too badly tonight. It had been so cold today.

'Asleep, Dean?' Sam asked softly, shutting the door and coming forward into the shadowed room.

'No.'

'You must be exhausted.'

'Umm.'

There was a rustle of clothing as Sam undressed. Dean saw the pale gleam of his bare chest and then the lighter area of his hip as he stepped out of the jeans.

'I'm a little tired myself,' Sam admitted quietly as he walked naked to the bed.

'Sam…' Dean tried to say the words that should be said, tried to explain why the younger man shouldn't be there. But Sam was pulling back the comforter and slipping in beside him and the logical phrases disintegrated in his throat. The warmth and strength of Sam as he reached out to hold him were a temptation that was far more difficult to resist than all the gold in the middle east.

'Don't worry,' Sam whispered huskily. 'I won't be making any demands on you tonight. We've both had a hard day.' He stroked his fingers through Dean's hair, soothing the nape of his neck.

'Sam, it's not that, it's just… Oh, Sam, hold me. Put your arms around me and hold me.'

Sam did, cradling him even as Dean pulled him tightly into the curve of his body. Dean inhaled the familiar, enticing scent that was uniquely Sam, knew the incredible comfort of his touch, felt the shape of him locked securely in his arms and relaxed for the first time since the day had dawned. Now he would be able to sleep.

Hours later he awoke to the light of dawn and the knowledge of what he must do. A part of him resisted the knowledge even though another side of him realized it was the only sure way. It was best to do things that sure way, he reminded himself. Careful, cautious, certain. He had spent the past year carefully, cautiously, certainly pulling himself back together. He knew about patience. He knew about being sure.

It would be tricky trying to teach those skills to the warm, frequently impulsive man who lay sprawled so contentedly in his arms. But it was the only way. Above all else he wanted Sam to know exactly how he felt about Dean.

No games. Not even the kind played out of pity or compassion. Especially not those.

Dean didn't move as he lay beside Sam. He was almost afraid of disturbing him because once Sam came awake he would have to explain his decision. He preferred to steal these last few minutes of closeness and warmth, make them last as long as possible. A wolf, he thought wryly, took whatever he could get.

Sam opened his eyes slowly, aware of Dean's arm around him, his hand resting possessively on his chest. Sam lay still for a moment, letting himself realize fully just how good it felt to lie next to Dean. It felt right. A sense of deep certainty settled on him. It was unlike any emotion he had ever known. Sam was in love with Dean Winchester. He had known it since yesterday.

It didn't surprise him that love would arrive like this. Such an emotion, when it finally came into his life, was bound to happen in just this manner. For someone like him there was no other way. Quick, impulsive, but absolutely right. He knew real gold when he found it. Lazily he stretched, a serene, confident expression in his eyes as he turned to meet Dean's steady gaze.

'Good morning,' Sam murmured, touching his mouth lightly to Dean's. 'How did you sleep?'

Dean blinked, his features holding a trace of surprise as he thought about the question. 'Solidly.' His hand moved on Sam, following the length of his thigh. 'Thanks to you.'

'Good.' Feeling vastly pleased with himself, Sam stretched again, this time bringing his body quite deliberately against Dean. 'I'm glad I'm useful for something. I felt like such a fool yesterday when I walked straight into Sa'mael's hands.'

Dean didn't respond to the invitation of Sam's languid stretch. In fact, Sam decided, he seemed almost tense. Not at all like a man who'd had a good nights' sleep.

'It wasn't your fault,' Dean told him. 'Anyone would have been fooled by the recording. I've heard messages scrambled from other recordings. They can sound very real. But you kept your head. You got him back here.'

'I knew you would be coming back and that you could handle everything,' Sam said.

'How long have you known?' He watched Sam with cool green eyes.

Sam knew the coolness was deceptive. He also knew the real question Dean was asking. He knew the older man very well now, Sam decided. Reading _Phantom _had filled in many of the blanks a person normally encountered when learning about another human being.

'How long have I known that you were the man they used to call Wolf?' There was no point in not being totally honest. 'Since yesterday for certain. When Sa'mael told me that Wolf had been a legend at one time but had not made it back from his last assignment-'

'Because I'd cracked,' Dean put in bluntly.

Sam refused to acknowledge his interruption. 'I began to think about Phantom. About a man who had been to the brink and hung on instead of going completely over the edge. A man who had forced himself to survive when by all logic he should have been crushed. And then I thought about the way I feel safe around you…'

'Safe?'

Sam nodded. 'I realized it that day at the Pike Place Market when you showed up just as Sa'mael was about to coerce me into his car. And yesterday when I found myself trying to think of a way to deal with Sa'mael. Something told me I only had to get him back here. When you arrived I knew I would be safe again. There were lots of other little clues, of course. Your concern with the security of this house. The way you move. That sketch of my uncle's. Even the way you play checkers. So intense and cool. Then there was your recent conversion to vegetarianism. Somehow that seemed symbolic. Something a carnivore might do if he were trying to put aside that aspect of his life. It all fit. Especially once I knew for certain that Sa'mael wasn't Wolf.'

'You had such a terrible image of Wolf,' Dean began heavily.

'By the time I realized you had once been Wolf, I was ready to throw the image out the window. I knew the real you by then.' Sam smiled, dimples out in full force, loving Dean with his eyes.

Dean's face became remote. 'I'm not so sure, Sam.'

'Not so sure of what?'

'That you know the real me.' Dean stilled the protest that rose instantly to Sam's lips by putting his fingers against the young man's mouth. 'Listen to me, Sam. I rushed you into bed that first time. The second time was too intense, too emotional because you knew I was leaving and you weren't sure what was going to happen. We've been living in the eye of a storm ever since I walked into this house and found you in my study. There's been no chance for you to get to know me in a normal fashion.'

Alarm flickered into life. Sam watched him intently. 'Are you trying to tell me you aren't sure how you feel about me, after all?'

Dean shook his head once, a quick, violent negative movement. 'I know how I feel about you. I've been wanting you for months. You've been growing in my mind every day, taking shape, tantalizing me, until I knew I had to have you. But your uncle was right. There was something else I needed to do first.'

'Write _Phantom_.'

'That book was a final step in freeing myself, Sam.'

'I understand.' And he did. Completely now.

'You were a goal, a treasure waiting for me after I had put the past behind me. I feel as though I've been getting to know you for months. Your uncle saw to that. But it didn't work that way for you. You've only known me a few days and that time has been too intense, too dangerous and too emotional.'

'Falling in love is bound to be emotional!' Sam put in quickly.

'Are you saying you think you're in love with me?' Dean searched Sam's face.

'Yes.' Sam spoke the single word with calm assurance.

'Sam, you can't know that!'

'You told me once that you would like me to love you,' Sam reminded him.

Dean's fingers tightened on him. 'I want that very badly. But you have to be certain. You have to be sure. No games, Sam.'

'I've never played games with you.'

'How about with your own mind? Sammy, it's just too soon. You can't possibly know how you feel. Not yet. Hell, up until yesterday, you've been thinking of Wolf as some kind of psychotic killer. Now you've learned that Wolf and I are one and the same. You can't tell me you've managed to adjust to that kind of news overnight!'

'I get the feeling I can't tell you much of anything,' Sam tossed back. 'You're not ready to listen to me. You've already decided the way things have to be, haven't you?' The alarm was coiling tightly in Sam as he began to see where Dean's words were leading.

'Sam, I want you to have time to get to know me,' Dean told him urgently. 'This time around we'll do it right.'

'I don't understand!' But he did and the realization panicked him.

Dean continued forcefully, his certainty clear in every word. 'Yes, you do, Sammy. We're going to do it right. I want you to have a chance to make absolutely certain of your feelings. The next time you tell me you love me I want you to have had plenty of opportunity to think through just what you're saying.'

Sam pulled free of him, sitting up with the sheet around his hips bunched tightly in his fists. His hair fell in his face in a soft tangle as he stared at Dean. 'Are you sending me away?' his voice sounded odd. He was clinging to more than the sheet. He was hanging on to his control with both hands.

Slowly Dean sat up beside him, his eyes almost colourless. He was committed to finishing what he had started, Sam realized. Sam would not be able to reason with him this morning.

'We're going to start a normal relationship,' Dean said.

'What's normal? Dean, you of all people should know by now that life is short and highly uncertain. We've found something wonderful together. Why should we waste time? Please don't do this.' The plea was all wrong, Sam thought. He was letting his emotions rule his tongue. Dean wouldn't trust him to know his own feelings if he did that. Dean didn't trust emotions.

'I'm not sending you to Outer Mongolia,' he said.

'No? Then where are you sending me?'

'I think it would be best if you went back to San Diego.'

'San Diego! But I don't even have a job there!'

'You've got your apartment, don't you? It's still your home.'

Sam groped for an argument. 'What about you? Are you just going to sit around here until you figure I've had enough time to know my own mind? Dean, that doesn't make any sense. I'm an adult. I already know how I feel.'

'I'm going to come and see you. Call you. Sam, I'm going to court you, don't you understand? I'm going to give you plenty of time-'

'How much?' he challenged.

Dean looked blank. 'How much what?'

'How much time, damn it!'

'I don't know.' He frowned. 'However long it takes, I suppose.'

'That's not fair Dean. If you're going to sentence me to exile, you have to at least put a time limit on it. Give me a date. One week? One year? I want a date.'

'Sam, you're getting hysterical.'

The worst part was that Sam knew he was right. He was losing his self-control. It was the shock, Sam decided. The shock of waking up in love and being told by Dean that he wasn't ready for his love. Sam gulped air, swallowing shouts of anger and panic. The more emotional he became, the less Dean would trust him to know what he really wanted. For the sake of their future, he had to get hold of himself.

'Yes,' Sam murmured, sliding off the edge of the bed. He looked around a little frantically for something to wear and finally saw his shirt on the floor where he had left it last night. 'Yes, you're quite right. I'm getting emotional.' His fingers fumbled with the buttons but he managed to get the shirt on. Then he picked up his jeans with hands that still trembled. Dean never took his eyes off of him.

'Sam. Sammy, listen to me.'

Sam shook his head. 'No, no, I'm all right. I understand. You don't fully trust intense emotions because you learned once that they can take you to the edge of disaster. I should have realized that after reading _Phantom_. That was the lesson you learned when you went through with that last mission and then disappeared, wasn't it? Your emotional response to your work nearly got you killed. You kept yourself so tightly leashed and under such control for so long that in the end you almost came apart when the explosion occurred. That's why you talk in terms of appreciating life's pleasures. Anything stronger than pleasure might be dangerous.'

Dean got slowly to his feet, completely unconcerned with his nakedness. 'I just want you to be sure of how you feel,' he repeated stubbornly.

Sam got his jeans zipped and lifted his head to meet Dean's eyes. 'You want to be sure of everything. Sure of the security of your house, sure of me, sure of your own self control. Well, go ahead and make sure, Dean. Being absolutely sure of things seems to be one of the few _pleasures_ you get out of life. Who am I to deny you?'

Turning, Sam strode from the room.

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

AN: Well, this is it! I hope you enjoyed my rewrite of 'The Waiting Game' by Jayne Ann Krentz. A wonderful Harlequin Intrigue Romance from 1985. A very good book that I had fun slashing and bringing into modern times. Enjoy and thank you for reading!

* * *

><p>Dean's version of a courtship, Sam decided a month later, was going to drive him slowly insane.<p>

Over and over again he told himself that Dean was the one who needed the time. Time to be sure of him. Sam would give him that. After all, he loved him; he would give Dean anything he asked. But how long would the farce continue, he wondered dismally.

'Farce' was hardly the most respectful term for Dean's courtship, but it was the one that came to Sam's mind most often during the torturous, contrived, carefully choreographed weekends. True to his word Dean flew down to San Diego every Friday evening. He spent Saturday and Sunday with Sam and then flew home to his island.

Sam's hopes for the first weekend were dashed when Dean checked into a motel near his apartment and continued to retreat to it every evening of his stay. The other weekends were no different. Dean took him to dinner, shows, the zoo and the beach. But he never took him to bed.

In fact, Dean rarely touched him with any intimacy at all. That was the part that was beginning to drive Sam out of his mind, he realized. He was left with a feeling of genuine panic every Sunday evening when he saw Dean off at the airport. Perhaps Dean wasn't capable of making the final step of total commitment. He knew Dean wanted him, knew Dean took pleasure in his company but Dean had convinced himself that Sam didn't understand his own feelings.

What he really feared, Sam decided, was that Dean didn't understand the depths of his own feelings for Sam. Dean was afraid to surrender completely to the force of his own emotions.

They would be fierce and intense, the emotions of a strong man who had much to give once he had accepted the power of his own nature. But Dean had learned the hard way that there was a risk in losing some of his self control. Sam wanted to set Dean completely free, to urge him to take a risk both on Sam and on himself but there was no way to break through the controlled façade. On Monday morning after the fourth weekend Sam acknowledged that Dean had established the rules and he was going to force him to play by them.

_Bad analogy_, Sam told himself wryly as he fixed coffee with his Italian espresso machine. Dean didn't like anything that smacked of game playing. Sam stared morosely out at the palm tree in front of his kitchen window and thought of the carefully restrained kiss he had received at the airport the previous evening.

Uneasily he tried to brush aside the worry that perhaps Dean would never be able to relax and let himself trust both of them completely.

Dean did love him, Sam told himself with some violence. He hadn't said the words but that was all right. Sam knew him, understood him. Sam had complete confidence in his love. His only fear was that Dean would never have the same confidence.

Somehow Dean had to learn that the iron control he held over himself wasn't necessary any longer. He was a whole human being now. He'd healed himself. Dean must learn to have faith in the health of his emotions and in those of the man who love him. Dean could live safely now without a perfect cover.

And Sam did love him, completely. With every fibre of his being. One month of the stilted courtship hadn't changed that. Nothing on earth could change it. Sam had never been so certain of anything in his life.

He was at home that evening when Dean called. Sam was always at home these days. Not because he didn't have friends or invitations but because he was worried that Dean might phone and find him out. Sam wanted nothing to upset Dean or alarm him. He wanted Dean to know that he was simply waiting for him.

The conversation followed its by now predictable path.

'How was the flight back to Seattle?' Sam asked politely.

'Find.' Dean hesitated. 'Have you eaten?'

'Oh, yes. I fixed myself a salad.' Sam searched mentally for something to add to the careful conversation. 'And I had a glass of wine.'

'I went down to the tavern and had a beer.'

_At least you got to get out of the house_, Sam thought irritably. _I'm forced to sit here from five o'clock on because I can't be sure when you'll call. And I'm worried you'd use the evidence of my not being at home as an indication that you were right not to trust me_. 'Sounds good,' he said brightly. 'How's the plotting going on the new book?'

'Okay. I'm trying to figure out how to untwist some things in chapter four without giving away too much information. This book is going to be a lot easier to write, though, than _Phantom _was.'

Not surprising, Sam thought. This second book wouldn't be nearly so autobiographical. _Phantom_ had been a form of catharsis. The next book would truly be fiction. Sam didn't have any doubt that it would be as good in its own way as its predecessor, however. The bottom line was that Dean really could write. 'Speaking of giving away information, Dean,' Sam heard himself begin quite firmly.

Dean paused before inquiring cautiously, 'Yes?'

Sam hesitated. 'Well, I was wondering. I mean, it's been a month now and I was just thinking that you might have come to some, er, decision.'

'About what?'

Sam very nearly lost his temper. 'About us!'

'Oh. You still want a date when everything's going to be settled, don't you?'

'Dean,' he tried reasonably, 'this is getting us nowhere. I've tried to be patient-'

'You don't know much about patience, Babe.'

'Don't be condescending. Just because people like you know all about patience, doesn't mean the rest of us-'

'What do you mean, people like me?'

Sam wanted to snarl at having used all the wrong words. The forbidding cold was back in Dean's voice. 'I just meant that you seem to have developed a great deal of patience during your life. I, uh, I haven't been quite that fortunate. Dean, I'm trying to give you the time you need, but-'

'I'm not the one who needs the time,' Dean interrupted quietly.

'Well, I sure as hell don't need it! I know what I want. I'm in love with you, and this past month has been Hell. I feel like I've been in exile. You don't touch me, you're so polite I could spit, and you won't tell me how long it's going to go on. There are times when I really begin to wonder if you-' Sam halted the flow of words abruptly.

True to form, Dean refused to be left hanging. 'You wonder if I what?'

'Nothing,' he mumbled.

'Sam, tell me what you were about to say.'

Sam sighed. 'I wonder if you will ever really trust yourself or me enough to love me.' There. It was said. Sam hadn't dared anything that intimate before and he wasn't at all certain how Dean would react. Sam had been assuming a great deal, he thought rather bleakly.

Silence on the other end of the line greeted his statement. Then Dean's voice came with rock-hard certainty.

'I love you, Sam.'

Sam caught his breath, his fingers gripping the phone. 'You do?'

'You've been a part of me for months. I can't imagine life without you.'

The simple words were overwhelming to Sam. 'You never said anything quite that explicit before,' he finally got out rather weakly.

'I don't think I've thought it out quite that explicitly until now,' Dean admitted slowly. 'You've just been there, a part of me.'

Sam closed his eyes in relief. It was finally over. It must be over. 'God, Dean. I love you so much and I've been going crazy down here waiting for you to be sure.'

'I've been sure all along.' Dean sounded vaguely surprised. 'It's you who needed the time.'

Sam's eyes narrowed as he picked up the first inkling that his waiting might not be ended after all. 'I don't need any more time, Dean. Please. I've been very patient. I could wait forever if there was a real need, but there isn't. There's no need for us to be apart.'

Dean's voice hardened. 'I want you to have more time.'

Sam heard the finality in his words and fury mingled with despair. 'You think I'm playing a game with you.'

'No, Sam, it's not that. I just-'

Sam didn't let him finish. 'Dean Winchester, you don't know what real game playing is!' Quite precisely and quite definitely, Sam hung up the phone. Then he walked to the hall table and found his wallet. There was a warm, inviting little tavern down the street and around the corner. If Dean could have a beer in the evenings, so could he. Come to think of it, he needed it a lot more than Dean did tonight.

The phone rang insistently behind him but Sam ignored it. He walked to the door, opened it as the phone continued to ring, and then he stepped outside. It was a wonderful, balmy Southern California evening. The scent of the sea hovered in the air and the row of palm trees lining his street rustled lazily in the evening breeze. Sam strode quickly down the sidewalk, wondering what the trees looked like in the middle east.

The tavern was only half full, with a crowd of people in their twenties and early thirties. The women, with their cleverly casual hairstyles, their silk shirts and jeans, chatted vivaciously with men in equally expensive hairstyles and designer jeans. Several heads nodded familiarly as Sam took a lone seat in the shadows at the back of the room. He ordered an imported beer and sipped it thoughtfully when it arrived.

_The trees in the middle east_. Images of menacing jungles and scorching deserts came to mind. Not really his kind of place. Dean had learned caution the hard way in such places around the world. Caution and patience.

But there was a time and place for caution and patience. Surely they shouldn't be allowed to stand in the way of a loving commitment. Love was so rare and so valuable it was a shame to make it wait on caution and patience. Sam took another taste of the expensive import and thought about Dean's reluctance to release himself completely from the reins of his self-control.

Dean had let those reins slip on a couple of occasions, Sam reminded himself. The first time Dean had made love to him, for example. The second time as well. Of course, on those occasions Dean had been assuming that he could keep his past hidden from Sam. Dean had had no need to fear Sam's reactions to learning his full identity because he'd assumed Sam never would know of it.

But even that last night at his home Dean had been unable to send Sam away although he had already made up his mind to give the younger man time. Dean had needed Sam that night, not in a sexual way, but in the way a man sometimes needs comfort from someone they love. He'd let Sam comfort him to some extent, Sam reminded himself on a note of hope. Dean had held him very tightly that night, even in his sleep. Sam had been aware of the tension gradually leaving the other man. He seriously doubted that Dean had ever risked taking much comfort from others.

He turned the matter over in his mind. Dean loved him and he loved Dean. And as he had told Dean, life could be short and precarious. Love was too important to risk losing because of too much caution and patience. He needed to find a way to make the older man understand that. He needed to yank Dean out of his cautious, patient, controlled world.

An hour later Sam walked home alone, opened the door and saw the gleam of the crystal apple as it sat reflecting the light of his desk lamp. He stared at it for a long moment, thinking of Sa'mael's plans to retrieve the gold. Then, very slowly and very thoughtfully, he closed the door.

The phone rang just as he was about to get into bed an hour later.

'Hello, Dean.'

'Have you calmed down?'

'I've calmed down.'

'I love you,' Dean said quietly.

'I know. I love you.'

'Just give it a little more time, Sammy,' he urged. 'The waiting isn't easy for me, either.'

'I think it's easier for you than it is for me,' Sam told him.

'No,' Dean said in a raw tone. 'It isn't. Goodnight, Sam. Sleep well.'

'Good night, Dean.'

Sam hung up the phone and wandered slowly out into the living room. Once more his eyes fell on the crystal apple. There must be a way to break the impasse. The apple held the key to the gold. Perhaps it held the key to unlocking Dean's emotions.

Again he wondered what the trees looked like in the middle east.

-o0O0o-

Dean answered his phone on Friday morning with a sense of anticipation that he couldn't deny. Very few people in the world had his unlisted number. Sam was one of those people.

'Hello?'

'He's gone crazy, you idgit. I warned you this would happen. Don't say I didn't warn you!' Bobby Singer was one of the few other people who had the number.

'You didn't warn me,' Dean said patiently. Determinedly he squelched his disappointment that the caller wasn't Sam. After all, he would be seeing him this evening. He could wait. 'Calm down and tell me what you're talking about, Bobby.'

'You think it's a joke, but I can tell you from past experience, it isn't.'

'Okay, it's not a joke. Now tell me what it is that isn't a joke.'

Singer spoke grimly. 'He's applied for a passport.'

Dean paused, absorbing that. 'A passport?'

'And he called me up to see what I knew about getting in and out of Saudi Arabia.'

'This is a joke, right? You and Sam both have a very strange sense of humour, Singer. I've told you that on previous occasions.' But Dean's hand was like a vice on the telephone receiver.

'Believe me, I'm not finding this funny. Applying for a passport isn't the end of it, either.'

Dean sucked in his breath. 'All right. Let me have it.'

'He asked me for a second copy of your half of the map and he's put an ad in the L.A. Times. Want to hear it?'

'No. But I think I'd better.'

'Listen to this.' There was a rustle of newspaper on the other end of the line and then Bobby began to read: '"Danger, adventure, financial reward for the right person. Applicant must be willing to travel out of the country, able to take care of themself and willing to follow employer's orders. Personal interviews only, no phone. Three o'clock on Friday." That's today, Dean.'

'I know it's today.'

'He goes on to name the hotel down in San Diego where he'll be interviewing applicants. You know as well as I do that every California bozo who's into fantasy violence is likely to show up. Dean, this is all your fault. I'm holding you personally responsible.'

'My fault? You're the one who gave him half a map and a legend, for pete's sake!'

'And then I gave him and the map to you, damn it! I thought you would know how to take care of both!' Bobby hung up the phone with a crashing noise that made his listener's ear hurt.

Dean stood silently staring at the receiver for a very long moment. Sam was playing games again. In his usual impulsive, off-the-wall style he was issuing a full-blown challenge.

Sam appeared to have absolutely no fear of him. He must know that Dean would be furious when he found out what the younger man had planned. Everything Sam had done was quite deliberate, of course. He'd notified his uncle just to make certain Dean would find out immediately what was happening.

A challenge, Dean thought as he yanked his canvas duffel bag down from the closet shelf. Sam had one hell of a nerve. Dean recalled the way he had walked into his home that first night and found Sam casually searching his study. Sam had had no fear of him then, not after he'd found the apple. And he obviously had no fear of him now.

But Sam had shuddered and gone cold whenever he had mentioned the man called Wolf. And Sam knew Dean had been Wolf.

Dean had wanted to give Sam plenty of time to accept him completely once he'd learned the whole truth. He'd wanted to be certain Sam could handle the idea of what he had once been. He loved Sam. It would tear him apart if deep down Sam was unable to accept him and his past. A few more weeks or months and he would have been more certain Sam knew what he was doing.

But Sam had no patience for strategy. He had applied for a passport and put an ad in the papers. He was going to force Dean's hand.

Dean zipped the bag closed, checked for his keys and set the house alarms. It would take him several hours to get to San Diego and he didn't want to waste any time. There was a midmorning flight that he just might make if he moved quickly.

He was astonished to find himself suddenly very impatient.

-o0O0o-

The line began forming outside the hotel room at two o'clock. Sam watched in growing trepidation from the lobby, trying not to be obvious. If any of the wildly varied assortment of men in the line realized that the potential employer was the young man who was hanging around the front desk, he would be mobbed.

He had never dreamed so many people would show up in response to that ad. What really alarmed him was that Dean was not among the thirty-plus males lounging in line. Nervously Sam wiped his hands on his jeans. In a few minutes he was going to have to start dealing with that motley crew. Several of them looked rather rough. One or two appeared to be ex-bikers. A few were probably ex-military and some appeared merely curious. None of them was an ex-wolf.

Reaching for a pad of hotel paper and a pen Sam tried to jot down a few interview-type questions. What did one ask a mercenary? Especially when one had absolutely no intention of hiring him? He needed a question or two that would definitely exclude everyone in that line. Desperately he searched his brain for something that would make each of the waiting men ineligible.

At five minutes to three Sam steeled himself for the task ahead. Dean was nowhere in sight. He was going to have to start the interviews or risk a very discontented line of applicants. The hotel management would not thank him for starting a riot.

Head high, back straight, he took hold of his jangled nerves and strode down the line of rather scrungy-looking males. Without glancing at any of them he opened the hotel room door and said over his shoulder, 'I'll see the first person in line now.'

Five seconds later he found himself alone in the room with a swaggering young man who was wearing a much abused military fatigue shirt. He took one look at Sam and grinned arrogantly.

'You the guy who wants to hire me?'

'I'm the guy who is looking for the right candidate,' Sam said coolly. 'Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to ask you a few pertinent questions.'

'Go right ahead, sir,' he retorted with mock courtesy. 'I'm at your service.'

The swaggering young man's grin was gone when he stomped out of the room five minutes later. He was grumbling fiercely under his breath. Sam beckoned for the next applicant.

Sam had sent fifteen of the men packing when there was a loud commotion in the hallway outside the room. Angry voices rose in protest and a second later the door was shoved violently open. Sam looked up from interviewing candidate number sixteen and saw Dean filling the doorway. Anger, a seething impatience and a vast masculine annoyance burned in Dean's eyes when he looked at Sam.

But the room didn't go cold.

Dean pinned him for an instant, then his gaze flicked to candidate number sixteen, a middle-aged ex-military type running to fat.

'Out.'

The ex-military type examined the newcomer for a few taut seconds, then shrugged and got to his feet. 'I was just leaving. Seems I don't fit the profile of the successful applicant,' he drawled. He used the words Sam had just spoken a second before the door had been flung open. He sauntered past Dean, a flicker of amusement in his expression. 'A very interesting young man. Good luck, buddy. I think you're going to have your hands full.'

Dean ignored him and turned to confront the remaining candidates. 'Everyone can go home. Interview time is over. The man has already hired someone. Me.'

'Now wait just a damn minute, pal…'

Dean glance over his shoulder at Sam. 'Tell them, Sam.'

Sam got to his feet and realized his knees were slightly shaky. He had seen Dean in a lot of different moods, including the one that could chill a room. He had never seen him thoroughly annoyed. Sam summoned a polite smile as he nodded at the men in the hall.

'I'm afraid he's right. Mr. Winchester is the perfect candidate. Thank you all for showing up today.'

There were a few growls of protest but the cluster of men dissolved. A moment later the hall was empty and Sam was left to face Dean alone.

Dean leaned back against the doorjamb, his arms folded across his chest. 'What the hell kind of game do you think you're playing, Sam Campbell?'

Sam sighed and sat down again. It was easier than standing. 'I didn't know so many people would actually answer an ad like that.'

'This is California, remember? Put an ad like that in the paper and you're bound to lure a lot of nuts out into the open.' He came away from the wall and stalked over to the desk, flattening his palms on its surface as he leaned down to glare at him. 'Did you think I'd let you get away with a stunt like this?'

Sam smiled tremulously. 'No.'

Dean narrowed his eyes. 'I'd have been here earlier but the flight was delayed. I've been amusing myself for the past several hours thinking of what I was going to do to you when I finally did get to San Diego.'

'I can imagine.'

'I ought to take a belt to your sweet backside.'

'Sounds kinky.'

'Damn it, Sam, what the devil do you think you're doing?' He straightened away from the desk and paced to the window. 'I'm furious with you.'

'Yeah. I'm sorry about that part, but I-'

'Sorry about it!' Dean whipped around to stare at him. 'Sorry about it!'

'I couldn't think of any other way to force you into realizing that this stupid courtship has to end. It's driving me crazy, Dean.' Sam rose to his feet to confront him. 'We're wasting time and love, and everyone knows those are commodities that are too valuable to waste.'

'What makes you think you've achieved anything other than annoying the hell out of me?'

Sam faced him determinedly. 'There's only one way you can keep me from going to the middle east.'

'Really?' Dean asked with soft menace. 'And what's that?'

'You're going to have to marry me. If you don't, I'll be on my way as soon as my passport arrives.'

He looked dumbfounded. 'Marry you!'

'This is blackmail, Dean. Pure and simple. I'm giving you an ultimatum. Marry me or I'll go off on my own in search of that gold.'

Dean continued to stare at him as if Sam had taken leave of his senses. 'You're serious, aren't you?'

'I'm serious. This isn't a game, Dean. I don't play games with the really important things in life.'

'And I'm one of those things?'

'Dean, you are the most important thing in my life,' Sam said with simple honesty.

There was a moment of profound tension as Dean regarded him with an unwavering gaze. Sam had the impression he was seeking the proper words to express his feelings. He waited in an agony of suspense.

'Sam,' Dean finally said carefully, 'I'm very angry. I can't ever remember being quite this angry.'

'I know,' Sam whispered. 'And I regret that, but-'

'But you're not afraid of me, are you?' Dean finished.

'Are you kidding? I've crossed all my fingers and toes.' his mouth curved in wry humour.

'But you're not frightened, are you?' Dean pressed.

'Not the way you mean, Dean. The room hasn't gone cold. The only time it ever did was the time you rescued me from Sa'mael. And I knew at the time that the chill was my protection, not something I had to fear. I love you and you love me. How could I be truly frightened of you?'

Dean ran a hand through his hair and turned back to the window. 'I've been scared to death,' he admitted starkly.

'Of loving me?'

He shook his head. 'Of worrying that you couldn't really love me knowing who I am.'

Sam stepped around the desk and walked slowly toward him. 'I love you, Dean. I love you so much that I'll do whatever I have to do to stay with you. I know all the important things about you. I read _Phantom_, remember? I told you after I read it that I'd fallen in love with the hero.'

'And I told you that I'd rather you fell in love with me.'

'You thought it would be pleasant.' Sam nodded.

'I think,' Dean said huskily as he turned toward Sam, 'that it would be more than pleasant. I think it's absolutely essential.'

'Dean,' Sam breathed, pressing closely into Dean. 'I love you so much. Don't send me away again. I couldn't bear it.' He buried his face against Dean's neck, arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace.

'You do tend to dramatize, don't you? I never sent you away. This past month was supposed to be a courtship.'

'It was a test and I hate tests. I trust you, Dean. All I want is for you to trust me.'

'Or else you'll blackmail me into marriage?'

Sam's fingers bit into the muscled back beneath Dean's shirt. 'I've told you, I'll do what ever I have to do in order to keep you.'

Dean stroked Sam's hair, tangling his fingers possessively in the chestnut-brown strands. 'I believe you, Sammy. After this fiasco today, how could I not believe you? I have to admit you're not exactly looking for a way out of our relationship. But I thought I had to offer you that escape if you wanted it.'

'So that you could be sure of me. Well, I'm not looking for an escape, Dean Winchester.'

'I love you, Sam.'

Sam lifted his head, eyes flickering with emotion. 'I love you.'

Dean smiled and wrapped him close. 'Can we go home now?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'We can stop in Vegas on the way back to Washington,' he went on thoughtfully.

'You really are going to marry me?'

'I thought I didn't have a choice.'

'You don't,' Sam assured him.

Dean thought about being wanted so badly by Sam that he'd do anything to keep him. It was a novel idea. He discovered he liked it. He was suddenly very sure Sam wasn't playing games.

-o0O0o-

The phone was ringing in Sam's apartment when they walked in the door a few minutes later. Dean reached for it.

'It'll be your uncle,' he explained as Sam glanced at him in surprise. Then he spoke into the receiver. 'Hello, Bobby. You can stop panicking.'

'Why the Hell weren't you answering your cell?' The gruff question was blurted out almost before Dean finished his sentence.

'I kind of left it in Seattle.' Sam stifled a little laugh and moved away from Dean, further into the room.

'Well, I knew you'd handle things once you got there,' Bobby said in tones of great satisfaction. 'What happens now?'

'We're going to get married in Vegas on the way up to Washington.'

'The hell you are! Whose idea was that?'

'Sam is blackmailing me into it,' Dean explained, watching him as he talked.

'Blackmail, hmm? I always knew the two of you had a lot in common. You both know what's important in life and you'll both do whatever it takes to get the job done. You just approach things in a slightly different style, that's all.'

'Umm.'

'But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you two get away with a Las Vegas wedding. I've been waiting for years for Sam to find the right man. I demand a real wedding. With me there.' Bobby paused and then said in tones of satisfaction, 'I won't have to worry about shopping, will I? I've already given you your gift. That reminds me, I'll be expecting a thank you note.' Bobby Singer hung up the phone.

Dean stood looking at Sam. 'Your uncle wants a thank you note.'

'Don't worry, I'll write one.'

'He's also demanding what he calls a real wedding. He doesn't approve of the Vegas idea.'

Sam grinned. 'He just wants an excuse to wear one of those damn aloha shirts.'

'Bobby always did like parties.'

Sam smiled. 'Well, much as I hate to admit it, we may have to accommodate him. I'm extremely grateful to him. But not for the map.'

'I know what you man. I feel the same way.' Dean moved, pulling Sam firmly into his arms. 'You're the real treasure. I will take very good care of you, my Sammy.'

Sam nuzzled his nose into the side of Dean's neck, lips brushing over the soft skin under his ear. 'I know. And I will take very, very good care of you.'

It was a long time later that Dean stirred in the depths of the tangled sheets of Sam's bed and remembered the question he had wanted to ask earlier. He drew a hand playfully down Sam's spine until he arrived at his muscled backside.

'Sam?'

'Umm?' he was rapidly adopting Dean's characteristic response.

'What did you tell all those candidates before I arrived at the hotel? How did you get rid of them?'

'I told them that there was one important requirement the successful candidate had to meet.'

'What requirement?'

'The successful applicant had to be a vegetarian.'

There were a few seconds of startled silence. Sam turned over onto his back in time to see the laughter dawn in Dean's eyes. A moment later it consumed him completely and Sam was left to marvel at the first full throated laugh he had ever heard from Dean.

He decided that a laughing wolf was a very enthralling sight. He would make certain Dean laughed a lot more in the years ahead.

-o0O0o-

The wedding reception, held on the ocean-front terrace of the home of Sam's parents, was a loud and exuberant success. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell were pleased with their new son-in-law. For them, Dean's cover was still nicely intact. They thought he would have a steadying influence on their beloved but often unpredictable son. They had several qualms about allowing Bobby Singer to act as best man, however.

'I knew he'd wear something ridiculous,' Ellen Campbell said with a resigned groan as she stood with her son near the punch bowl. 'Just look at him in that silly shirt. Everyone else is in formal wear! I should have put my foot down right at the beginning and made it clear he would not be allowed to participate in this wedding unless he was willing to conform!'

'You wouldn't have had much to say about it, Mom.' Sam laughed at his highly agitated mother. 'The best man was the groom's choice, not yours.'

'It's not that I don't love my brother dearly, it's just that he's so… so…' she waved her hand helplessly.

'Have some more punch, Mother.' Sam leaned over to pick up a fresh glass of the frothy red concoction.

'And that's another thing,' his mother went on a little grimly. 'Does this punch taste funny to you?'

'Spiked to the hilt, I'm afraid,' Sam admitted cheerfully. He was watching his new husband as Dean stood talking to his father. The two men appeared to be involved in a very serious discussion.

'I knew it,' Ellen exclaimed. 'I thought I saw Bobby fooling around near the punch bowl an hour ago! The champagne wasn't enough for him, I suppose!'

'Excuse me, Mom, I think I'd better go rescue Dean before Dad sells him on the idea of investing all his royalties in long-term certificates of deposit.'

'Dean is a very stable, very intelligent man, dear. I'm sure he'll want to hear your father's advice. He's a man who will want to plan for the future.'

'Dean has me to help him plan his future.' Sam swept up another glass of punch for himself and went off to join his husband.

The look in Dean's eyes as he went to stand beside him warmed him from the head to toe. Dean loved him. Above all else, Dean loved him. His was a total commitment. Just as Sam's was to him.

'Your father's been telling me about the advantages of long-term investments,' Dean said, putting his arm around his new husband's waist.

'I'll just bet he has.' Sam smiled at his father.

'I'll go over some more details with you later, Dean. So glad Sam found himself a man who has his feet on the ground,' Campbell said easily. He nodded in a friendly fashion, leaned over to slap his son on the back and went off to have some more of the heavily spiked punch.

'Feet on the ground, hmm?' Sam tipped his head to the side so that Dean could brush his mouth against his.

'That's not where they're going to be in a couple of hours,' Dean warned.

'No?'

'Nope. Unless we decide to try something really unusual in the way of wedding nights, I plan to spend the evening horizontally.'

'Dean, I must tell you that lately you've begun to develop an odd sense of humour.'

'Any sense of humour is better than none,' Bobby Singer declared jovially as he sauntered up to join them. He was holding a glass of champagne in one hand and a glass of punch in the other. 'Nice party, Sam. Your mother can throw a decent bash when she sets her mind to it.' He took a sip out of each glass.

'Glad you're enjoying yourself, Uncle Bobby.'

'I always enjoy parties. Say, I'm glad I finally caught the two of you alone. I've been wanting to talk to you all day.'

Dean looked at him warily. 'Is that right?'

'Yeah, you know, I've been thinking.'

'I'm getting nervous already.'

Bobby shook his head. 'No, no, this is serious. I've been giving some thought to Sa'mael's little plan for getting the gold out through Saudia Arabia. After Sam put that ad in the paper-'

'Don't remind me of that ad,' Dean warned.

'I'm telling you, Dean, it's given me pause. There just might be a way to do it.' Bobby leaned forward conspiratorially. 'If we put together the right team- and you know we've got some good contacts - we could slip in and out of the country without anyone even knowing we were there.'

'Uncle Bobby!' Sam's eyes widened excitedly. 'Do you really think so?'

'Well, it would be risky, of course. But it just might be feasible.'

Dean's gaze narrowed. 'The only reason it sounds feasible to you, Singer, is because you've been drinking too much of that damn punch. Forget it.'

Sam turned to him eagerly. 'But, Dean, just think. What an adventure it would be!'

'I said forget it and I meant it.' Dean lifted his champagne glass and swallowed deeply.

'But, Dean, babe…'

'Don't 'Dean, babe' me. I said no. That's the end of it.'

Bobby chuckled. 'How about this. Your first martial quarrel.'

'And you started it,' Dean shot back.

'You know what I think?' Sam demanded, glaring at his husband. 'I think Dean is taking his new sense of husbandly duties a little too seriously. He's starting to lay down the law and we haven't even left the reception.'

'Start as you mean to go on,' Dean quoted blandly. 'And speaking of going on, I think it's time we said good-bye to all these nice folks. We've got a wedding night waiting for us. Are you ready to leave, Mr. Winchester?'

'Yes, I am, Mr. Winchester.' Heat flaring through Sam at the thought of the upcoming wedding night activities.

'I've never seen him quite so amenable,' Bobby marvelled.

Dean grinned suddenly. 'It won't last. I intend to take advantage of it while I can. Let's go, Sammy.'

Sam caught his uncle's eye as he obediently turned to leave with his new husband. Singer winked. Sam laughed silently back at him. The gold could wait for a while. After all, legends lasted a long time.

Bobby Singer's sister drifted up to stand beside him. She smiled maternally after her son. 'Well, Bobby, in spite of that idiotic shirt you're wearing, I have to admit that this time you really came through. I was beginning to wonder if my son was ever going to fall in love. But you seem to have found just the right man for him.'

Singer raised one of the glasses he was holding and grinned. 'The best. A legend in his own time.'

… The End …..


End file.
